#why is he always holding her like that its like he cares about her or something. what a freak

[girlinaboxx]

what happened after the explosion..// sevika x reader ﹒₊‧ ﹒𓆩 𓆪﹒₊ ﹒﹒

this is just a ramble, a short story—whatever you want to call it. no major warnings, just heavy angst.

you were losing your mind.

it was nearly 4 AM, and she still wasn’t home. six hours late. that wasn’t just late—it was unheard of. sevika was always late, sure, but never this late. maybe you were overthinking it. maybe you were being too naïve, too soft, too you to understand the kind of life she led.

but then again, maybe you weren’t.

a thousand thoughts raced through your head, each worse than the last. had a deal gone wrong? was there a fight? had someone stronger—meaner—finally taken her down? you tried to push those thoughts away, but they sank their claws in deep, festering, growing roots inside your chest. you had called. you had texted. hell, you had even stood by the door, keys in hand, heart in your throat, seriously considering breaking the one rule she made crystal clear:

“if i ever saw you at any of Silco’s— i will wreck your shit.”

a direct order. one you weren’t stupid enough to disobey. but if she didn’t show up in the next hour, you didn’t care.

then, just as your panic was reaching its breaking point, the front door creaked open.

relief flooded through you for exactly one second. then you saw her.

sevika wasn’t alone.

she wasn’t standing.

she wasn’t okay.

deckard stood in the doorway, her massive, half-conscious body draped over his arms. he looked at you like he was waiting for something, maybe for you to freak out, maybe for you to do something—but you couldn’t move. you couldn’t breathe.

because your baby was broken.

her shoulder was a mess of blood-soaked bandages and metal clamps, barely holding together the raw, exposed wound. she was awake, but only barely—bleary-eyed and exhausted, her head lolling against deckard’s chest. you’d never seen her look so small before. so… defenseless.

you wanted to scream. to cry. to shake her, demand what the hell happened, why she let this happen—why she always had to come home in pieces. but there was no time for any of that. you needed to pull yourself together. you needed to be strong. For her.

deckard didn’t say a word as he carried her inside, setting her down carefully on your couch before stepping back. you barely registered the sound of him leaving, the door clicking shut behind him. the apartment was quiet, except for her breathing—shaky, uneven, pained.

you dropped to your knees beside her, hands hovering over her as if she were made of glass.

she cracked one swollen eye open, her lips twitching like she was about to smirk, about to throw out some cocky remark to make you feel better. but nothing came.

instead, her fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt, holding on like it was the only thing keeping her from falling apart.

and then, for the first time in two years of loving her, sevika cried.

she buried her face against your chest, her broad shoulders trembling. tears—real tears—hot and silent, soaking into your skin. it shattered something inside you, something you hadn’t even realized could break.

you wrapped your arms around her, pulling her closer, cradling her like she was something precious, something fragile—something you would burn the world for.

you stayed like that for an hour. maybe longer. just rocking her gently, pressing trembling kisses against her temple, whispering things you weren’t even sure made sense. she never cried out loud, but you felt every sob against your chest as she soaked it in tears, in the way her grip on your shirt tightened to the point of tearing.

finally, she spoke.

“i can’t hold you like I truly want now..”

and just like that.. you heard your heart shatter, your fingers threaded through her hair, your lips brushing over her damp forehead.

“you still have me.”

and you meant it. every word.

no matter how many pieces she came home in, no matter how much she thought she lost—she still had you.

always.

[vryfmi]

[major book spoilers]

my favourite concept that i barely see in l&co fandom being talked about is Lucy grieving Skull. whether you see their relationship as platonic or ship skullyle, it's stupid to deny the fact that Lucy grew to care about Skull, her actions in epilogue being the heartbreaking glimpse into the new reality for her and her friends after the events of TEG:

“I don’t know why you insist on having it with us for each meal.” (Holly) “It’s that horrid charcoaled skull Lucy insists on carrying around with her.” (Holly) I’d wrapped it up and taken it home, and kept it with me ever since, just in case.

here i want to say that im not a fan of idea of Skull eventually "coming back", re-materialising. it defeats the moral of Lockwood & Co and the growth that Skull underwent. past is meant to stay the past, living can only learn from it while dead will forever exist there. no one should disturb the dead, the past, it needs to be left at rest and let it hold its memory.

Skull wanted and longed for freedom, at first defined by breaking out of silver-glass prison, but later, very clearly defined by the peace of mind. he was scared of death as much as Bickerstaff was, that's why Skull turned his back on the other side, he chose to stay here, in the world of the living. i always read his decision to save both Lucy and Lockwood as him admitting that he could never be a part of the living world (cough could never compete with what lockwood, alive boy, could give lucy cough), so he pushed the two away as he stayed in the room with Marissa, Penelope and Ezekiel.

to me, the best ending to Skull's story is him passing on his terms, not the explosion destroying his connection with the source, but contemplating what he sees himself doing after Lucy suggested him staying with L&Co. Skull declines her offer. and chooses freedom.

obviously, that's my reading and how i prefer to interpret L&Co's ending. (it's also the reason i can't accept that christmas special as canon, im sorry, i hate happiness).

but that leaves Lucy and her newfound need of keeping skull near her at all times since Fittes HQ explosion, her wishful thinking that he'd come back. and i want to see her go through painful acceptance of losing Skull. losing a someone that she never got to know closer. losing a chance to get to know him as a friend, to admitting to have found a friend in Skull, a kindred spirit. losing someone who understood her and knew her deepest fears because these two deeply traumatised teens were so alike. losing something that she chose to define herself and her worth by. Lucy would have to come to terms with how much of a support system she had in Skull. and now, she'd have to navigate without it.

Lucy makes a remark that i can't stop thinking about.

Whenever I put my fingers on it, I got no psychic charge. The bone was dry and cold.

i could go on a rampage theorising why Lucy can't feel anything despite a) her having a strong Touch b) objects that are not sources are still able to hold strong psychic echoes. but i feel like Stroud was trying to wrap up the story and didn't want to introduce a whole new storyline of Lucy picking up fragments of Skull's past. which is a shame. i would kill for such story to be told. (please hit me up if you do.)

but say she really can't pick up anything, Skull is gone and there's not a psychic trace left of him. where does Lucy find herself then? constantly checking the skull with all her senses, wishing to see a green spark dance around the (former) source, to hear a whispery insult in her ear, to feel just anything with her touch. but it's all gone. there's nothing left. no one left. everyone else is moving on, hurries Lucy to get rid of that horrid old bone, but how can she? how can she bring herself to get rid of the only thing left? the only thing left on earth to remember a nameless boy by? the boy who could've been her friend, but she failed to trust him? failed to say thank you?

with each passing day Lucy’d feel worse because she knows how she looks to her friends, to agents, to the ones saving London from violent visitors every night, putting their lives on the line. and here she sits, wishing a ghost to appear in her attic room when she's the most vulnerable at heart.

bonus points for Lucy picking up a pencil and trying to recreate the boy she saw on the other side on paper while the memory is still fresh, while she still remembers. (but also, if we view books as Lucy's memoirs, it would make Skull's bare-bone description even more sad because that would mean older Lucy forgot the details).

what im trying to incoherently say is, Lucy would grieve. and having read almost all of the books Stroud wrote, i see that he has a very intimate relationship with grief and mourning the loss of someone dear to the point where he explores different sides and intensities of it, how each of his characters goes through it, in every single book of his. (i believe, i have three more books of his to read).

p.s. i don't want to be a hypocrite so here are fics about lucy grieving skull that i love to bits:

- i'm still painting flowers for you by terryh

- echoes by menina123

- it isn’t the same (but it is enough) by bluejay_07

- don't wanna go, but it's time to leave by fourohfourerror

[himluv]

Amazing

Chapter 36 of Say My Name (Say it Twice) is here! In which, after dessert and coffee, Lucanis makes good on his offer to show Rook where he used to live.

Read it below or on AO3!

Suffused with warmth from both coffee and their conversation, Lucanis took hold of Embria’s hand and laced his fingers through hers as they headed back to the market. He still felt shy, touching her in public like this. In the back of his mind, he heard Caterina scolding him, telling him that a public display of affection would only make Rook a target. 

It would. He knew that. 

He also knew that anyone who came for Embria would die a slow, agonizing death at his and Spite’s hands. 

Protect. Our. Rook! The demon grinned at him from Embria’s other side. 

It was their new alliance, now that Caterina was safe. Something he knew he and the demon would always agree on. 

“So,” Rook said. “Where was this apartment of yours?”

“This way.” He led her along the outside edge of the market, nodding to a couple of merchants who recognized him. Then they stepped down into a small courtyard, a building tucked into its corner. It looked much the same as when he’d lived here. Plants in large stone containers and cheery lanterns hanging on either side of the door. A welcoming, well-kept space. 

He pointed up at a window on the second floor, on the right side of the building. “That one was mine,” he said, sighing. 

“Its’s pretty,” she said. “Unassuming.”

He smiled at her. “I liked that about it.” It had been nothing like the villa. It had been his.

“And it’s proximity to Café Pietra didn’t hurt.”

“Of course.”

They smiled at one another, their hands still intertwined. In another life, this would be the end of a date, perhaps with a kiss on his doorstep. Or, if he were feeling brave, maybe he would invite her up. But this wasn’t a romance novel. And this wasn’t his home anymore. 

The door opened and a familiar face peered out into the courtyard. “Master Lucanis?” The man, older and balding, stepped outside and smiled. “It is you!” He reached for Lucanis’s free hand and shook it. 

“Claudio!” Lucanis smiled and released Rook’s hand to add his to his former landlord’s enthusiastic grip. 

“I knew!” He said. “I knew you weren’t dead!” He shook his head and wagged an index finger in the air. “I did not believe the rumors.”

Lucanis frowned. “Why not?”

The man grinned at him. “House Dellamorte took over your payments.” He put his hands on his hips. “Why would they do that, if you weren’t coming back?” He glanced between Lucanis and Rook, then waved at them to follow him inside. “Come, come!”

Lucanis stared after the man, his mind racing. Then Embria took his hand and squeezed, leading him into the building he had once called home. 

“I kept the place tidy,” Claudio called over his shoulder as they climbed up the stairs. “But I moved nothing, Master Lucanis. It’s just as you left it.”

Lucanis’s throat felt tight. Dry. This didn’t feel real. Why would Caterina pay his rent for over a year? Why hadn’t she mentioned that the apartment was still his?

“Well,” Claudio continued. “Except for Pepita. Señor De Riva came for her not long after you left, sir.” He grinned at Rook as he slid the key into the lock of the front door. “I know nothing about caring for snakes.”

She chuckled, her smile warm and patient. Her hand in his was the only thing keeping Lucanis rooted in the moment. Judging by the reassuring brush of her thumb on his, she knew it. 

Home. He still had his home. 

Claudio opened the door and gestured them through. “Your key, sir,” he said, and handed the heavy piece of brass to Lucanis. 

He stared at the key in his hand with stunned awe. 

“It is so good to have you back, Master Lucanis.”

He said nothing to that, overwhelmed by this unexpected turn in the night. 

“Thank you, Claudio,” Rook said. 

The man nodded at her, then ducked out of the room, closing the door behind him before heading back downstairs. 

Lucanis looked around the room. It was as Claudio had said – everything was just as he’d left it. A year ago. A year since he’d stepped foot in this place. Since he’d cooked in this kitchen, or ate at that table. A year since he’d sat on this sofa and knit by the light of the fire. 

Spite flitted around the room, sniffing at anything and everything. Smells stale. Old comfort. Smells like. Lucanis!

Rook moved first, stepping further into the main living space. He watched her spin slowly, eyes roving over his belongings with warm curiosity. 

He tried to see the room through her eyes. Eyes with no history or attachment or confusion. The kitchen was small, but cleverly designed. While he wouldn’t want to cook a banquet there, it was better appointed than the Lighthouse kitchen, and Lucanis had enjoyed preparing meals for himself –and sometimes Illario – there. 

Within easy conversation distance, his small dining table sat beneath a simple chandelier. It was bare and looked lonely to Lucanis, as if it was incomplete without at least a wineglass or two. 

To the left of the dining table sat his sofa, its dark blue upholstery anchoring he room. It was flanked by baskets, one for finished knitting projects and the other for in-progress ones.  A low table separated the sofa from the hearth, and was a dark wood that matched the bookshelves on the far wall. 

Embria went to inspect the shelves, humming at some titles she recognized or was intrigued by. She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Have you read all of these?”

He shook his head. “Most are from my mother’s collection. I brought them with me when I left the villa.”

Maker, that had been such a fight between him and Caterina. That he’d wanted to move out at all had been cause for bitter arguments and stifling silences. Then he’d dared to take his mother’s things? Things Caterina had long ago packed away in a determined effort to forget that her eldest daughter had ever existed. She’d practically kicked him out of the villa after that, which suited them both just fine. 

“She must have read a lot,” Embria said. 

Lucanis smiled. “It was her preferred hobby.” One she passed on to him in the little time they’d had together. 

“And your father’s?” She still peered at the books, tilting her head to better read the spines. 

“Sailing.”

She chuckled. “Those are two very different hobbies.”

He could still hear his father teasing his mother for always bringing a book on board. But, once they were underway, he always kept her wineglass filled. His parents had doted on one another in their own ways. 

“They are,” he admitted. “And yet, they got on well.”

Embria smiled at him. “This is a nice place,” she said. “Cozy. Not like the villa at all.”

“That was my intention.”

“How long did you live here?” She’d moved on from the books to gaze at the painting above the fireplace. A gift from Viago when Lucanis had become a full-fledged Crow. 

He had to count back the years. “Seven, eight years?”

“Wow,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever lived in one place so long.”

Spite, who’d been bored with talk of Lucanis’s parents, perked up at that. “Rook. Leaves?!”

Lucanis glared at the demon once he had control again. 

“The Dalish are nomads,” she said. “We never stay anywhere for long.”

“And in Wycome?” Lucanis couldn’t help his curiosity. He wanted to know everything about her. 

She shrugged. “Rent’s expensive, even in the alienage. We moved a lot.” There was something dark in her tone, something guarded. 

Lucanis let the subject drop. “Come,” he said, reaching for her. “Let me show you my favorite part of the apartment.”

“It isn’t the kitchen?”

He rolled his eyes and led her down the short hall to the bedroom. Only once they were through the door did he realize he’d never brought anyone here. Even on their rare visits, he hadn’t shown Illario or Viago his room. 

He’d kept that for himself. And now, for Rook.

Embria pulled up short in a beam of moonlight. Across from the door, his bed stood against the wall, beneath a large and ornate circular window. 

It was a stunning and indulgent feature. All of his training and instincts screamed that such a window – above his bed, of all places – was a liability. A vulnerability. But, Lucanis had moved out of his grandmother’s house to separate himself from his work as much as possible. 

In this apartment, he wasn’t the Demon of Vyrantium, or even a master assassin. Here, he was simply Lucanis. And Lucanis loved this window. 

He pressed his hand to the small of Embria’s back. “There’s more,” he murmured at her ear. 

Her breath hitched at the brush of his words on her skin. She glanced up at him and licked her lips. “Show me.”

With just a gentle press on her back, Lucanis led her to a set of double doors at the righthand side of the room. He opened them to reveal a small balcony, just big enough for a couple of chairs and a little table. A perfect spot to enjoy a cup of coffee or glass of wine. 

The balcony looked out over a canal at the Coin and Financials District. Below them, the canal rippled with moonlight and the sounds of the market floated around them. He took a deep breath and finally felt at ease for the first time since they’d entered the building. 

“Lucanis,” Rook breathed. “This is gorgeous.” She leaned against the railing, looking out at the view. 

He smiled at her, pleased that she seemed to share his appreciation for beautiful things. He allowed himself to appreciate this view in particular. Embria’s back was to him, her elbows on the railing, the tantalizing slope of her back let his gaze slide down to her hips and backside. Her leather overcoat obscured her curves some, but Lucanis knew the swell of her hips under his hands, now. He knew exactly what he was looking at. 

“I can understand why you’d stay here,” she said. 

He shook his head to banish his lascivious thoughts. “What I can’t understand is why Caterina kept it.” He leaned against the doorframe and gave her a rueful smile. “She hated that I moved out.”

“Well,” she said, leaving the balcony railing to stand before him. “Teia said that Caterina never stopped looking for you.” She put her hand on his cheek. “Maybe this was a just one more tether to her grandson she wasn’t willing to let go of.”

It was a sweet thought, one altogether too generous for his grandmother. Caterina wasn’t completely heartless – he faintly remembered a time when she’d looked at her grandchildren and smiled. But, she’d kept whatever softness remained locked away from him for so long, he struggled to think she might be so sentimental about him as to continue paying his rent for a year. 

But, perhaps Rook had a point. Perhaps there was a hint of truth in her words. Something to consider, even if he wasn’t sure what to do with that truth at the moment. 

“Perhaps,” he murmured against her palm. He took her hand in his, pressed another kiss to her wrist. When he glanced over at her, her eyes were dark. 

Wants, Spite hissed. 

Lucanis pulled gently on her hand, and Embria fell into him with no hesitation. Her hand moved to cradle the back of his head as his fell to her hips. They kissed, easy and slow, with just a little heat.  She was so warm, even in the cool night air. He felt her body like fire against his. She tasted like coffee and cinnamon, smelled like summer. 

He deepened the kiss, his tongue tracing along her lips until her mouth opened. His blood cracked like lightning in his veins and suddenly nothing was soft or slow. Her hand tightened in his hair and he gripped her hips, pulling her hard against him. 

She moaned against his mouth, and Lucanis thought his heart might race right out of his chest. His right hand wandered up her waist, clung to her ribcage, his thumb brushing against the underside of her breast. 

Rook gasped, her head falling back. Instantly, his mouth trailed down her neck to find that spot he liked so much, where the column of her throat and shoulder met. Her scent was strongest there – salt and sweet and a little smoke – and Lucanis could not get enough. He kissed the spot and she shuddered against him. Then he sucked at the sensitive skin and she moaned. Encouraged by her sounds, he nipped at the spot with his teeth.

She cried out and jolted so hard against him that Lucanis stilled. Had he hurt her? But, her hands tightened in his hair, on his shoulder, and her hips rolled against him. She shook her head once.

“Good,” she panted. “That was good.”

He hummed against her skin, kissing where he’d bit her, and she sighed. Embria shuddered against him again, and Lucanis thought he might explode. 

“The bed,” he growled in her ear. She nodded, but they didn’t separate. They made their awkward way to stand beside the bed, hands and lips everywhere. He pushed her overcoat down off her shoulders, and she hurried to shrug out of it. Then she sat on the bed and let her hair down. 

He sat beside her and tried not to think too hard about the fact that she was here. In his room. On his bed. But he couldn’t keep the tremor from his hands when he turned her face to his again. 

“Hey,” she said, pulling back from his kiss. She brushed her fingers through his hair. “We go as far as you want. You’re in control.” She smiled at him, lips pink and swollen. Gorgeous. “I’m happy, no matter what.”

He searched her face for a hint of a lie, for judgment. But of course, Embria told him the truth. The only look on her face was desire and adoration. 

Lucanis kissed her, a little tentative, his hand on her neck. His thumb brushed along her jaw, and she took the cue, tilting her head back and permitting his tongue into her mouth. She moaned, the sound vibrating into his mouth, and just like that the fire in the pit of his stomach was stoked once more. 

They traded kisses, her tongue lacing with his until he ached. He leaned into her, and she lay back onto the bed beneath him. It took a moment for them to settle, shifting toward the center of the bed, but once they did, he lay between Rook’s hips, his elbows around her shoulders. 

The press of his hips against hers was so good. So, so warm. The pressure and heat so delicious against his arousal that he had to close his eyes and focus on his breathing. Mierda, he was trembling and they were still fully clothed!

“Lucanis,” she murmured. “Look at me.” 

He opened his eyes and looked down into hers. Her hair surrounded her face in an autumn haze, her lips were swollen and pink and her skin was flushed red. She was stunning like this, and he thought he would never tire of looking at her. 

She took his face in both hands and pulled him down for a tender kiss. “Okay?”

He nodded, but her brow furrowed. 

“Tell me,” she said. 

His throat felt dry. All of him was thrumming, his mind blank and buzzing. He couldn’t think, couldn’t focus on anything but her eyes, her lips, and where their hips pressed together. He opened his mouth, but there were no words on his tongue. 

Embria wrapped her arms around him and pulled him down against her. He turned his head so that his ear rested against her chest. She held him while he listened to her heart beat against his ear. He matched his breath to hers, slow and deliberate, until he finally relaxed into her body. 

She was so soft. Her body wasn’t just fever and pleasure, but comfort, too. He was a little embarrassed he’d needed the reminder, but the feeling passed quickly. He knew she wouldn’t hold it against him. 

“You know,” she said once his breathing evened out and the tension left his body. “I’m nervous, too.”

He lifted his head a little to peer up at her. “You are?”

She nodded. “I haven’t been… intimate with anyone in over two years. And I haven’t been with a man since I was a teen.” She didn’t look at him, but she ran her fingers through his hair as she spoke at the ceiling. 

“I’m out of practice,” she continued with a shrug. “It’s silly, but I’m worried I might not live up to your expectations. I don’t want to disappoint you.”

Lucanis propped himself up onto his elbows, hovering over her to force her to look up at him. He stared down at her, his brow pulled low. “You could never disappoint me, Embria.” He brushed some of her hair back behind her ear, and this time his hands were steady. “You amaze me,” he said. “Every day.”

She smiled up at him, the corners trembling and her eyes shimmering in the moonlight. She traced a fingertip along his lips, and then his cheekbone. “You amaze me, too,” she whispered. She trembled beneath him, and he knew it had less to do with desire than emotion. 

It wasn’t quite a confession of love. But it was very, very close. And there, in his room, it was exactly what they both needed to hear. 

Lucanis kissed her, and though his erection twitched against her heat and she gasped, it was a waning passion. He settled down against her once more, content to listen to her heart and to breathe with her. 

She held him close, running her fingers through his hair and humming softly. It was so soothing, so warm, that Lucanis dozed a little. 

“Do you want to stay here, tonight?” She asked after a while. 

He considered it, blinking the cloy of sleep from his mind. Then he shook his head. “Another time,” he said. He grinned up at her. “I have the key, now.”

She smiled down at him. “Let’s go home,” she said. 

He nodded, but, surely, she must know. Lying there in her arms, Lucanis was already home.

[delulustateofmind]

Hey its anon 🦋 here! your new blog design is so pretty! i just read your recent post and im desperate for more of your thoughts on geto and nanami infatalising their partner. what would they like her to wear around the house? what are some of their 'house rules' which she has to follow? (i think geto is strict on rules but what about nanami?) and what are some other ways in which they punish or remind her of these said rules? (i have so many questions and thoughts on this too im sorry)

Hello 🦋 anon! Thank you!! I saw a picture of ponyo on Pinterest which is now my pfp and it just resonated with me. Change is good! Hope you are doing well!!

Mmmm, oh baby, okay. This is a little long....

TW: Yandere behaviors, Infantilization, controlled environment, Captivity, Narcotics MDNI

what would they like her to wear around the house?

Geto: Sweet things should look sweet. Frilly lingerie, delicate nightgowns, soft, light-colored dresses. He wants you to be a vision of purity, ironic, considering what he does to you. Maybe he keeps you in a yukata, traditional, easy, he likes the contrast of careful folds and careless hands. But more than the clothes, it’s the ritual of it. The way he gets you ready, brushing out your hair, tilting your chin, smearing your lipstick with a thumb just to fix it again. When you cry? His favorite part. Mascara-streaked cheeks, eyes wide, bottom lip trembling. He strokes your face, and hums, a painter admiring his masterpiece.

Nanami: He won’t make demands. He likes you comfortable, but it’s only natural to expect a little effort. Would he ever ask you to dress up for him? No. But wouldn’t it be polite to greet him at the door in one of the dresses he’s bought you? Something elegant, with a bow tied at the back, something a wife would wear. Ah, but a man can only dream, can't he?

Rules/Consequences

Geto: I wouldn’t call him strict, he has rules, but you don’t know them. Not at first. It’s like playing a game you’ve never played before, except the person holding the rulebook is reading it in a language you don’t understand. You start noticing subtle shifts in his expression when you do certain things, start pinpointing what earns you a soft smile versus what lands you over his knee. What makes him hum in amusement versus what makes him lock you in the dark room for hours.

There are rules, obviously, but where’s the fun in telling you? First things first, what do you mean you think you can feed yourself? You were just screaming and throwing a tantrum about being kidnapped or something—get over it. Of course, he’s not going to trust you with a fork, a knife, not even a spoon. Chopsticks? That’s a death wish. So, after starving for a few days, you find it’s much easier to just let him feed you.

Bathroom privileges? Earned, not given. Oh? You broke the handle trying to get in because he wasn't home? Such a shame. Looks like you’ll just need a chain around that sweet ankle of yours to remind you of your questionable home improvement decisions. Sweet girls don’t break things.

Sippy cups. You can break glass. You can stab him. Stab yourself. Not happening. Maybe you’ll get upgraded to toddler cups when you stop glaring at him like you think you still have a choice.

Nanami: Now, he is the strict one. As long as you take care of yourself, you’re fine. But the moment you don’t? Well… that’s when you start to understand what consequences really mean.

You can do whatever you want in captivity, within reason. You don’t leave the house. You don’t skip meals. You don’t harm yourself or him. Simple rules. So why can’t you just follow them?

Sippy cups weren’t his first choice. But you refused to drink water, refused to eat. He warned you. He left the sippy cups out as a compromise, don’t make him grab a bottle. Don’t make him grab an IV. You won’t like it.

Refusing to eat? Easily solved. Sedation is always an option. He will get food into you one way or another.

Sleeping arrangements? He doesn’t expect you to sleep with him… yet. But he does start removing the stuffed animals when he notices how desperately you cling to them at night. You don’t need them. You have him.

Other thoughts:

Geto doesn’t punish you because he’s angry, no, anger is beneath him. This isn’t about control through fear. It’s about control through humiliation.

You act out? Now he has to carry you around like a misbehaving child. No, you don’t get to walk on your own. You’ve lost that privilege.

You refuse to eat? Now he has to feed you. Spoon pressed against your lips, hand lingering too long on your chin, tilting your head up like you’re something fragile and helpless.

You fight back? Oh, sweetheart. Now he has to wipe the drool from your lips, from the narcotics in your system, from the exhaustion of crying too much, from the way your body gives out before your spirit does.

And through all of it, he coos at you. Soft. Mocking. Condescending. "Oh, darling, look at the mess you’ve made. Can’t even take care of yourself, can you?" or "Messy, messy girl. Do I have to start bib-feeding you next?"

It’s not about hurting you. It’s about humbling you. When humiliation isn’t enough? Then it’s punishment.

Isolation. Locked in a room with no light, no warmth, no sound. No, him.

Spanking. Not fast. Not desperate. No, it’s slow and measured. Until the heat blooms across your skin, until your body betrays you, until you collapse against his chest, sobbing, gripping at him like he’s the only thing that can comfort you.

Pretending you don’t exist. A punishment worse than pain. He won’t touch you, won’t speak to you, won’t even look at you. And when you finally break? When you beg for his attention, his warmth, his presence? He just smiles, hums, presses a kiss to your forehead.

Leashes. Chains. If everything else fails? Then you simply won’t move freely anymore. (I don't suggest pushing him this far, because I fear you won't be fed high-luxury foods just rice porridge in a bowl with enough nutrients to ensure you can still fuck)

Nanami doesn’t force himself onto you, he makes sure everything else disappears.

First, it’s the blankets. The soft, cozy warmth he let you keep. Gone.

Then, it’s the stuffed animals. The ones you clung to at night, the ones you whispered your fears to when he wasn’t there. One by one, they vanish.

Then, it’s the soft clothes. The sweatpants, the oversized sweaters, the comfort items. Now, you’re left with delicate dresses, nightgowns that don’t quite keep you warm.

Until the only thing left—the only source of comfort in this house—is him. Ehen you start curling closer to him at night, when you stop pulling away when he touches you, when you break down and seek him out for warmth, for safety. He doesn’t gloat. He doesn’t mock. He just holds you gently, strokes your back, and lets you settle against his chest.

"There, there. You’re finally understanding."

It's unfortunately for him a long, slow conditioning.

He simply doesn't yell, or hurt you, he just makes life easier when you're good.

If you behave? He makes you safe foods not laced with sedatives, and makes you the recipes he had you pick out from his new cookbook.

If you listen? Well, you get small rewards here and there. Maybe a stuffed animal back for an hour, maybe a phone call to your parents to tell them to back off the search for you, he will even bring you a sweet treat home.

Until he finally has you seeking him out, until you finally nestle onto his lap, sip from the same cup as him, and allow him to touch you as he pleases.

Because unfortunately, fighting is exhausting, punishment can be unbearable, and at the end of the day if you just behave isn't it easier?

[cheshire-chronicles]

Moon Orchid | Itoshi Rin

✧ A/N: My second (and a half) tribute to period pieces, and I enjoyed it every much as its preceding pieces in the regency verse I’m creating. It was really this idea that inspired the concept of expanding my Blue Lock fics within a mini regency universe. So I hope you enjoy as they fall into place in indulgent historical romances.

✧ Synopsis: Rin’s place in society as the second son of a Viscount has been one that he’s had to adapt to. With news of his older brother swirling around the ton, Rin only learns this fact when he, himself, is faced with a florist and a bouquet of damning flowers. Of course, the language of flowers is one you speak fluently — and one he cannot speak at all. But when you have luck (common peony) and luxury (orchid) in play, what could go wrong?

The second son. It isn’t a title that ever particularly bothered Rin most of his life. His elder brother, the scion, the heir to the family’s Viscount status and responsibilities, held that role handsomely.

But when his brother fails to return from his time abroad, sending home letters that bear Madrid’s seal and smell of peaches and carnations — well, Rin’s opinions change.

He doesn’t take the mantle easily or out of any real desire, either. He completed his studies in etiquette and decorum, in fencing and horseback riding, in Latin and financials. Not because he cares much for his estate’s affairs, or because he seeks his father’s approval or his mother’s admiration.

If anything, he does it to catch his brother’s. To force Sae, wherever he might be in Spain, to take note of Rin and his work here in London’s ton.

He’s blinded by his single-track pursuit of acknowledgement. He’s always been that way — something he’ll soon realize applies more to than just his ambition, but in matters of the heart, too.

He’s always been prone to impulse. As much as he pretends otherwise, masks his temper under a facade of composure that always came so easily to Sae, it fits uneasily on him. Like glass encasing magma.

When his mother is fussing at a florist shop one day, he stands aside, staring idly out the window. It wouldn’t have been proper for her to be dallying about unaccompanied, and his father was away on business. She had insisted on his companionship over the maids today, though he doesn’t particularly care to know why.

If he had asked, in hindsight, perhaps things would not have gone so awry.

As he drums his knuckles against the wooden paneling of the window, wondering idly if the clouds outside were hinting at an incoming storm, he faintly hears his mother’s voice rambling on to the florist.

“Yes, I’m very excited,” she says, “he hasn’t been home in oh, so long. Why, I dare say it’s been four years? Perhaps five.”

Who the devil is she talking about? Rin wonders. Father’s never left home, and Rin feels as though he was constantly visiting home even during his university days.

“It’ll be a well-awaited day in the ton, then,” another voice replies.

Warm, amiable. He turns slightly, out of bored interest, and sees you. The florist, tending to his mother with an easy smile as you compose her flower arrangements.

“Indeed, indeed,” his mother goes on. “I imagine the young ladies of the court will be vying for his attention.”

“Perhaps roses to celebrate the occasion?” You offer her red roses, twirl a few pink. “Or orchids?”

Rin can admire your cleverness, if nothing else. It’s clear you’re experienced in the ways of upselling your flower shop’s customers. Quick and pleasant, your cheeks dimpling with a smile as you hold up different flowers for his mother’s approval.

“Orchids have always been my Rin’s favourite,” his mother preens, finally looking back at him.

He holds back a recoil, tensing only slightly as she plucks and smooths the lapel of his shirt and fusses with his coat.

“It’s fine, mother.”

“Oh, of course, darling. But orchids have always been your preference.”

He withholds a sigh, looking away. “I don’t particularly have any preference when it comes to flowers.”

“No?” He shifts his gaze at the voice. Not his mother — you. There’s something almost impish about your expression, eyes bright and sly. “Surely, sir, you can tell the difference between the common peony and a well-bred moon orchid.”

You hold up the flowers, as though to prove your point. He stares. Perhaps, if it were Sae, he’d be able to tell the difference more calculatingly. If it were Sae, he’d coolly note that the coral blush of the peony petals were abrasive and an eye sore compared to the silky white of the orchid. If it were Sae, he’d stroke the blossoms’ leaves and stems and be able to tell which had been grown in common soil and which had been cultivated in prestigious gardens.

But Rin is not Sae. And he never has been. The common peony looks no different to him from the moon orchid. If they were planted together, re-rooted into the same pot, housed in the same home, they would look fine together.

He meets your gaze, winter eyes like the tundra frozen over. “They look no different to me.”

You pause. Look from him to your flowers, then back to him. At his fine, dark hair, glossy in the faint sunlight coming in through the window. The clouds are coming in outside, though in the brief break of light, he appears almost angelic. Pale and dark in equal terms. His tailored clothes, fitted like a scion. Aloof, though you catch the trace of something more.

“I see,” you say softly, perhaps misreading his words. But in a florist’s humble attire, your dress marred with plant trimmings and fertilizer, your hands scratched with thorns and briars, the difference between you both has never been clearer.

Despite that, there is a clearness in his gaze that tells you he is assessing you on your words alone. Your actions and little else.

Before you can say anything more, his mother says cheerily, “But the occasion calls for carnations! Peonies and orchids will have to wait, I fear.”

“Carnations?” Rin furrows his brows, finally looking to his mother. “Why carnations?”

Something about them rings a bell. Something about them makes him care more about flowers than he normally would.

“Why, dear, you simply never listen to me,” she scolds, “I’ve been telling this young woman since we arrived at the shop. I received the letter just earlier today, it’s why your father is so busy with preparations and couldn’t accompany me here himself.”

“It must’ve slipped my mind,” Rin mutters.

“Oh, dear, you really should be more attentive —”

“Why carnations?” he presses impatiently.

His mother looks vaguely fussed about his tone, though it isn’t her who finally answers. It’s you, wrapping up the bouquet of bright red carnations in a white ribbon and handing them to him.

Outside, there’s a roll of thunder.

You say, with an innocent smile while dealing words that send an arrow through his heart, “Your brother is returning to the ton, my lord. Congratulations.”

He accepts the flowers on instinct. His brain feels as though it’s lost the capacity to process. Your hands brush his, and he reacts on reflex. On impulse alone, as he’s always been prone to.

Your warm fingers against his own cool ones. He feels every print as vividly as a petal on his lips.

Lightning flashes across the sky.

[studiogrimm810]

Stoned and Nostalgic

pairings/characters: (best friend/pining) sam x gn!you, dean is barely there

summary: when sam confides in you that he got accepted to stanford, you make him promise to go and never look back, but when you see him years later and back on the road with dean, you demand an explaination as to why he gave that up

warnings: getting high, angst, talk of jess and her death,

word count: 2,301

A/N: this was a request!! tysm for reaching out :):) also, if anyone wants to be tagged in my future works feel free to ask ^.^

———————

The night sky above was clear, shimmering stars from light years away tease your meaningless existence and you rest on the hood of your fathers car. A long drag of a loosely rolled joint fills your lungs with a biting smoke and you exhale, watching as the puff dissolves just above your eyes. A hand slacks into your peripheral and you pass the joint over to Sam.

You had known Sam for years. Ever since your dad and John teamed up on a hunt back in ‘92, it was often you got to share moments like this with the younger Winchester. He also always had the best weed.

Tonight, the dads and Dean were out on a hunt and you didn’t expect to see them for a few more hours. Not that they cared much about your ‘extracurricular activities’. Getting high with Sam was something you often found yourself looking forward to. You never felt safer than when you were with Sam, not just physically but emotionally too.

As summer nears an end, the cool night air rings with cicadas. You looked forward to the autumn months, the changing leaves with a more interesting landscape to get high too observe. Plus, this was the first year you didn’t have to go back to school. You and Sam were graduated adults now but right now, stoned and bodies pressed close, you still felt like dumb teenagers playing hooky.

“I missed you, been too long,” you say, taking back the joint as he passes it to you. Something is different with him though. He’s been quieter, more tense and quite eager to get to smoking.

“Yeah,” he says bluntly with a hint of sadness.

“Maybe with both of us outta school, we’ll get dragged on more hunts,” you pull in a fresh drag. “Wonder why we didn’t get involved with this one.” Sam just hums in response.

Even if his mind is full of thought, the air between you two stays light and dizzy. The joint doing its job.

Sam sits up, resting his forearms on his knees and running a hand down his face.

“I um-,” he clears his throat. You sit up with him and tilt your head, flicking some ash off the tip. “I gotta tell you something,” he looks straight ahead, working his jaw.

“What’s up?” You ask, taking another drag, the smoke dropping a haze over the seriousness of his demeanor. He’s quiet, amping himself up to say what he needs to.

“I got some pretty good news,” he says, but his face isn’t holding the excitement it should.

“Well, spill,” you nudge his shoulder.

“A few months back I applied to some colleges for the hell of it,” he starts, “I got accepted to a few,” the haze starts to thin, “I got a full ride for two. I chose the better of the two- Stanford.”

You’re shocked, the thought of college never even crossed your mind. It was out of the cards for you, not even an option to entertain with an SAT score.

“You’re kidding,” you exhale. Of course if anyone could swing a full ride to a school like that, it would be Sam. “That’s amazing!” You scoff, wrapping your arms around him and holding the joint away so it doesn’t get in the way. “Oh my god, when do you start? What did Dean say?”

Sam chuckles softly, shaking his head, “I haven’t told anyone else yet.” You feel honored. “I have to be there for orientation on Sunday.” Five days from now. Reality hits. Sam is leaving for good.

“Oh!” You try to remain excited for him but you can already feel the ache of his absence. “What are you gonna tell him? Or your dad?”

“I have no fucking clue,” he looks up at the sky, plucking the joint from your fingers. “They are gonna be pissed.” You want to argue that they’ll be ecstatic because who wouldn’t be? But you know John and the kind of father he is.

Silence washes over you two and you let the news settle.

“You’re gonna do great things, Sam,” you finally speak up. “You’re gonna change the world. You’re so damn smart and they’re lucky to have a student like you,” you list off your exact beliefs. “You’re gonna get out,” you breathe out.

Sam looks over to you as you stare above, envy buried under pride for your best friend. A small smile perks your lips and your chest swells with emptying exaultation. You can feel his empathetic eyes bore into your temple. He feels bad, you know he does.

“You deserve this,” you turn to him with glossy eyes. “You just have to promise me one thing.”

His jaw tenses with held back words and he sighs but nods.

“Don’t come back,” you shake your head, ignoring how his expression turns a bit confused and maybe even hurt. But you don’t care if it hurts him now. “You deserve more than this,” you gesture out to the desolate motel parking lot, “you deserve an education, a regular job, a spouse, a good house in a good neighborhood, maybe even a few kids if they're in your cards. You deserve a normal life. You can’t come back to this. Don’t let Dean or John or anybody stop you from doing what is best for you, okay?” Your words are stern and he takes the bite behind them. Your passion for his future fueling his desire to go out to California and never look back.

“I promise.”

———

After working a case in Colorado, you decided to take a few days off and relax at a motel in the beautiful state. You chose a motel within walking distance to a bar and wasted no time trekking up the sidewalk and to the establishment. It was a Thursday night so it wasn’t too busy and you took a stool in the middle of the bar, ordering your preferred drink and some house chips to snack on while you watched the muted talk show on a TV behind the bar.

You had a few drinks, grazed on some appetizers and flirted with the bartender who was looking for a good tip for sure. But you didn’t mind. A few strangers come up to talk to you but you turn them away, committing to yourself for the night.

As the night goes on, the bar gets a bit more crowded and you pay your bill, leaving a generous tip and throwing back the rest of your drink. As you push out of the stool and swing your jacket over your shoulders, your eyes lock with a familiar set and you smile.

Dean Winchester was occupying a high top in the middle of the dining room. His face lights up when he sees you and you make your way over to him.

“Hey!” You greet, and he gets up to meet you for a hug. “What brings you up here?” You ask, pulling away and fixing your jacket.

“Just driving, looking for a case,” Dean shrugs with a kind smile. It had been years since you last saw Dean. You had helped him and John with a nest of vamps back in ‘04.

“It’s so good to see you,” you look over to see an empty chair with a coat slung on the back and a fresh beer in front of the placement. “John in the bathroom?” You ask casually, but Dean’s face grims as he looks down at his glass.

“Actually, um, we’re looking for him,” Dean explains with a heavy inhale, looking up at you.

“We?”

You hear your name and your heart stops as you turn to see a matured and sturdy version of the beanpole you called your best friend all those years ago. A rush of emotions wrack over your body- joy, grief, confusion, anger. What was Sam doing here? It’s the middle of February, shouldn’t he be in school? It should be his senior year.

“Sam?” You ask, astonished to see the man before you. He smiles at you but the lack of your own causes his to melt away in confusion. “Why are you here?”

“What?” He asks, with a small shake of his head as if he didn’t hear you right.

“You should be in California, what- what happened?” You repeat. The promise he made is still fresh in your mind.

“It’s complicated,” he rolls his eyes at the complication and not in annoyance with you.

“No, it’s- Sam,” you scoff lightly. Ready to give him a piece of your mind.

“C’mon, let’s talk outside,” he grabs his coat and gestures for you to follow him. You head towards the door, ignoring Dean's eyes. You push open the door, stepping into the nostalgic night air, looking up at the crystal clear sky with speckled glitter for stars.

“Are you hunting?” You ask, not looking away from the sky.

“Yes,” he admits like an unfaithful spouse. He rubs the back of his neck and sighs. “It’s-.”

“You promised,” you interrupt, looking over at him with glossy eyes. The image is like déjà vu for him- but this time your eyes are damp with betrayed ache and not hopeful pain.

“Dad went missing and Dean needed help,” Sam reasons.

“Then he should’ve called me,” You combat, you hoped that Dean knew could trust you.

“My girlfriend was killed,” he upped the ante and it shuts you right up. Wiping away your anger like a switch. “The same thing that killed my mom- what my dad has been searching for- it got to her.”

Fuck. You feel awful.

“I couldn’t just ignore that- pretend like it isn’t my fault for thinking I could’ve had a shot at a life with her-,” his voice breaks and he turns away to pace a few feet.

“Sam-.”

“I gave it one hell of a shot though. Even was going for a chance at grad school,” he scoffed at how naïve he was- how stupid to think he could escape. He saw the whole experience as some sort of joke, especially since he only ended up getting the woman he loved killed.

“I’m sorry,” is all you can say. He turns to face you, his eyes shedding a few spare tears. You can’t get over how much he’s grown. He somehow got taller and is still more limb than noticeable muscle, but his face has sharpened and his eyes have aged a lifetime.

“I wanted to call you, so damn bad, but I didn’t want to see how disappointed you’d be,” he admits, looking down at the ground.

Damn, that hurts.

“No, I’m so sorry. I’m not disappointed, I just- I wanted so much more for you. I wanted you to be happy,” you explain, taking a few steps closer.

“I was,” his voice breaks as he looks back up at you. You can’t hold yourself back. You reach out to pull him close, rising on your tiptoes to reach him. His arms wrap around your body and he hangs on tight. He holds his sobs back but you can feel his body tremor.

“I missed you like crazy,” you mumble into his shoulder.

“Me too,” his words bite out quickly, he hisses back a sob, his fingers clenched into your coat.

You two stay like that for a while, allowing him time to steel himself before even thinking of pulling away. He’s in so much pain- grieving the life he almost had and the love of it too.

Conveniently, Sam and Dean have picked a room at the same motel as you and when Sam finally pulls away, you offer to call it a night and head back. You tell Dean for him, knowing Sam wouldn’t want his brother seeing him like this, and walk back hand in hand. You and Sam were always close like this, you were even each other's first kisses, so when you two got back to the motel, taking him to the room you previously booked with a single king wasn’t a second thought.

You two got comfortable on the bed and he retrieved a joint from an Altoid tin in his pocket. You listen as he tells you all about his time at Stanford- his major for Law and Criminal Justice, his friends and their lives, parties and particularly annoying professors. Then, when the drug works its haze, he’s able to talk about her.

Jessica Moore, you learn, was a kind, fiery, confident, funny young woman who had her own past that she and Sam bonded over. You rested against the headboard as Sam’s head lay in your lap and he continued to talk about anything and everything Jess. She had a mole between her brows that she was insecure of but Sam found stunning. Her wavy blonde hair would get frizzy in the rain and whenever she got too drunk, he had to talk her out of getting a Papa Smurf tattoo on her thigh.

You can tell just by the way his face ignites that he truly loved her- and still does. You don’t ever think this is the type of love he’ll be able to forget and you don’t blame him.

Hours pass and the high is fading. Sam fell asleep in your lap a little while ago but you continue to play with his shaggy locks, missing the mindless intimacy shared between you two. As much as you wished he would have stayed at Stanford, you know that he would’ve been miserable with guilt. At least on the road, he can do something. He can save other people’s Jess’. He can make a difference even if it isn’t as a lawyer.

He can avenge the death of Jess and Mary and you vowed to help him.

———————

thank you so much for reading!! <3

>pictures are not my own, i have the originals linked here (pinterest) >>check out my other works here

>tags: @blossomingorchids

[charmallows]

i'm normal.

[starscr0ss]

i actually have a hard time understanding childe's character and is mostly because of other people's takes + im like so scared of mischaracterizing him

[jils-things]

i went wandering off in my pokespe gallery and had to relieve how wonderful this scene played out. no kidding

please dont read the tags i got emotional there /lh

[ladynicte]

I really wonder if fatal flaws are actually like a family thing, Bianca does say that, that the fatal flaw of all children of Hades is holding onto grudges, but I do wonder if maybe that's just her fatal flaw and she just assumed that would be Nico's too

[leezuhh]

the xenophobia in genshin is crazyyy 😭

[featherymainffins]

Ough I fucking hate holidays because it is my duty as a child to visit my parents and just take whatever the fuck happens to me.

[hauntingblue]

Skypiea time

Robin saying that because I know she only got on a ship to then leave it...

Nami sees Conis and gets sanji out of there so SHE can talk to her akdhksajka not a single second lost

Hello my favourite panel of nami maybe ever

Sillies...

CHOPPER YOU ARE THE CUTEST

Robin throws this guy off a cliff and to make just to make sure she breaks his neck too akdjsksk who is doing it like her???

OMG ACE!!!! IT IS TIME!!!!

[stompandhollar]

Honestly the most revolutionary thing about Gravity Falls to me is its commitment to sincerity.

I’ve been listening to Alex’s podcast where he goes into the details of each episode with different storyboard artists and writers who worked on the show, and it just baffles me how… cared for the story is. Right now in media there’s been an uptick in satire, and shows making fun of themselves for existing, or taking the piss at their own content to “win” fans to their side. It’s like whimsy is gone from so many pieces of media. But Gravity Falls just doesn’t… do that. It completely embraces itself. Weirdness and all. And so does the team behind it. I’m not used to something I care about being so cared about by everyone surrounding it.

Here’s this cartoon, written and illustrated by an entire team of people saying, “no, we’re serious. we mean this. we made this on purpose and we made it important.”

Throughout the podcast, Alex discusses little ins and outs of each character, offering so much deep internal struggles and enriching the story even farther. And listening to him unpack it with the utmost sincerity just warms my heart. Each character is so dynamic because they were cared for by people who imbued them with sincerity.

That’s exactly why we get quotes like “Shame is powerful, but it grows in the dark,” as Ford realizes the trauma he’s hidden for so long is being embraced by his family, diminishing it’s weight on him through their immediate support.

It’s why we get Alex describing Stanley with quotes like; “I always in my gut thought of him as somebody with a huge well of sadness, a loss of human connection. And that need to please? That need to get laughs from the crowd, and putting on a big show? He’s trying to get from them the affection he never got from his family, and that he lost with his brother.”

Or detailing how Mabel might be a goof… but half the time she’s doing a bit, because she’s really more mature than her brother and doesn’t want him to grow up too fast. She’s trying to help ground him and bring lightheartedness into his life. Because she knows otherwise, he’ll become too self isolated.

And those two mini character studies he dropped so casually in these podcast episodes just… color the show. It’s why the show survived so well even after ten years. It’s gruff-old Stan always calling his niece “Pumpkin” and “Honey”. It’s the family always holding hands without it behind laced with a joke, and falling asleep on one another in the car. It’s Alex explaining that people toyed with other endings, other plot lines, other twists, but it was always going to end with Stan and Ford mending the family tie they severed thirty years ago. Because that was their story. Messes and family and care.

Ten years ago, watching it for the first time as it came out, I felt all that. But now, as an adult, knowing that all the other adults who made it felt the exact same way? :,) What a special story we all got to grow up with, and get to continue being apart of.

[gilverrwrites]

I love imaging Dick, Tim, and Damian sneaking around trying to meet Jasons new gf because they just wanna be involved in his life and they know if they they leave it to Jay they wont meet her u til they're married with kids 😭

AND ‘omg us meeting Jason’s siblings when’

AN: Ngl I love this idea too, its so shitty of them but they have the best of intentions.

Damian

A boy no older than 14 with eyes that pierce the soul was not what you'd expected to find on Jason's couch the very first time he'd left you alone there. Jason had to dip out unexpectedly early, and had promised you run of the place until he got back so you'd slept in as long as you could and were on your way to make breakfast when you're greeted by the hell-child.

Once your initial fright wears off you realise you recognize him from a photo Jay had showed you which makes you feel slightly more at ease.

“Good morning? Damian right?” You offer as you pass him, be-lining for the coffee machine, you're gonna need caffeine if you're meeting any member of Jay's family for the first time. “Can I get you anything?”

“Alfred says it's unbecoming to sleep past 9.” Besides the initial glare he'd graced you with as you emerged from the bedroom, he doesn't even look up at you, his eyes glued to the pages of a book. Like brother like brother, you guess.

“Oh, well. Good thing Alfreds not here then.” You add a small laugh, trying to inject some humour to the situation. Damian does not respond in kind. “Is that a no? I think there's some chocolate cereal around here somewhere.”

“What do you do for work that allows you to be in my brother's home in the middle of the day?”

Jeez this kid is no-nonsense. “Or I could make pancakes, I make really good pancakes.”

“And tell me what exactly are your intentions with my baby brother?” Baby?

“I think there's some chocolate chips around here somewhere. Jason says you like chocolate. Chocolate pancakes?”

“Do you always avoid questions?”

“Are you always so intense?”

He slams the book closed and you nearly jump on the spot. He finally looks at you, really looks at you and as you stare back his features begin to soften slightly.

“I’ll have a coffee.”

You're certain from the sly look on his face that he's probably not allowed coffee. He certainly doesn't need any. But screw it, he's not your kid and if it gets him to like a little, you'll take the risk.

So you pour two coffees and join him on the couch. His questions do not cease until Jason returns about an hour later. He couldn't care less about the coffee, but he does care about Damian breaking in to interrogate his partner and immediately kicks Damian out.

Dick

Dick finds out about your existence from one of Damian’s letters, and he's subtle but pushy about meeting you. Not that you're aware. He keeps ‘dropping by’ Jason's apartment ‘just to see his lil brother’, no other reason but is told to get lost or downright ignored anytime you're there, until he decides to cut out the middle man and turn up at your home instead.

“Let me tell you, you are a hard person to get a hold of.” He informs as he invites himself through your front door.

“Um, hello Dick?” As you stare at his lush hair and sculpted abs you wonder what Alfred feeds these boys.

“Yep! I can't stay so I’ve gotta make this quick.” he gestures for you to come closer, speaking in a playful, conspiratorial whisper. “Jay doesn't know I'm here.”

That would be why he can't stay, Jason is due at your door any minute now.

“But you two seem to be getting pretty serious and I think it's important that we all get to know each other. You following?”

You nod, and he gives you the perkiest, most genuine smile. That or he has that exact look practised to a T. From what Jay tells you, either is possible.

“So, Barbara and I, that's my wife” You nod once more, you're aware of Barbara also. “have booked a table at Casa Gotica for Thursday night. We need you to get Jason there without letting on that it's a double date.”

“I don’t know.” you finally give your nodding head a break. “Jay and I don’t lie to each other.”

“Right. I can't begrudge that. Very glad to hear he's picked an honest one.” He takes a moment to straighten his thoughts, but his moment is cut short but the echo of Jason’s combat boots approaching your door. Dick’s eyes rapidly scan the room for a secondary exit before he settles on an open window. “Don't think of it as lying, think of it as omitting the truth. Whatever you have to do just be there for 6.30. Oh, and it's great to meet you!”

“You too.”

“Thursday, 6.30!”

Before you can agree he’s gone, presumably scaling the side of your building as Jay steps inside.

Tim

Tim was actually the first to be aware of you and your relationship with his brother, however, the very real possibility of being gutted by Jason for snooping in his personal life was too high for him to make a move.

But you seeking him out is a different story; or rather, you being the first to say hi when you bump into each other in line at the grocery store is different. It would be rude not to respond to your attempts at initiating a conversation.

“Hello, hi, are you Tim? You don't know me but I’m Jasons partner. Its so great to meet you.”

“I know who you are.” He states rather ominously, eyes darting around behind you. “Is he here?”

“No, but he's picking me up after.” His shoulders visibly ease.

“Cool cool cool.” He’s suddenly much more personable. “So, I hear you're into…”

That chatting doesn't dry or lul at all as the queue dwindles and both buy your groceries. He waits with you until you get confirmation from Jay that he's on his way. He's easily the chillest sibling you've met thus far.

When Jason arrives he gets out of the car to open the boot and passenger door for you as always, but not before he thrusts his phone in your face. “Where is he?”

Displayed on the screen is a selfie of Tim with you in the background, you absolutely do not remember it being taken.

[lubdubology]

Take My Love and Wear It

SYNOPSIS: Taking care of Charles has its own special challenges, but you didn’t expect the hardest one to be the man who hired you. Distant, gruff and rough around the edges, Logan still manages to worm his way under your skin. But you’ve worked your way under his, too. 

PAIRING: Old Man Logan x fem!reader

WC: 10.8k 

WARNINGS: smut 18+; mdni; angst; swearing; non-explicit mentions of wounds, blood and use of stitches; extreme physical pain; Charles is a lovable, meddling little shit; fluff sprinkled in for good measure; Logan in a tub (if I had a nickel for every time I bathed him, I’d have two nickels—which isn’t a lot, but its weird it happened twice, right); touch-starved Logan; handjobs; shower sex; fingering; dirty talk; oral (f receiving); sex with feelings; unprotected p in v; creampie

A/N: There’s something special about Old Man Logan, isn’t there? Old and grumpy and desperately in need of some love and affection. I know the Charles caregiver story has been done before, but I couldn’t get this idea out of my head. And then Charles starting talking in my head and well...it blossomed into this. As always, thank you to @joelsgoldrush for allowing me to send her snippets of this as I went along and offering her love, support and suggestions. I hope you enjoy this and any likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!

You stare down at the remnants of yesterday’s cold and congealed dinner and sigh. Scraping the food into the trash, you resist the urge to pack everything you have and leave. 

One month. 

One month of helping Charles—making his meals, washing his clothes, giving him his meds, making sure he doesn’t hurt himself (or others), assisting with daily tasks—and Logan still regards you as a nuisance, like a gnat needing to be swatted away. 

At best, he ignores you, moving around the house as if you don’t exist. 

And at worst, he treats you with barely concealed contempt, his scowl deepening the lines of his face whenever he’s around you. As if you’re invading his space uninvited even though he’s the one that sought out help. 

You grip the edge of the sink, staring down into the porcelain basin as if it holds some hidden answers. Every day you’ve tried to break through walls Logan’s built around himself, held onto Charles’ promise that eventually he’ll soften, just give him time, but he only seems to have grown more hostile. And you’ve done nothing to incur his ire besides watching him come home every day battered and bruised, his very bones weary with exhaustion, and offering your assistance.

Part of you is angry—angry that you care so much when your main focus is supposed to be Charles. Angry that despite all his efforts to come across unapproachable and cold, Logan’s worked himself under your skin and takes a little piece of you with him whenever he leaves. 

Angry that somehow he’s stolen a piece of your heart. 

You hear shuffling behind you and turn to find Logan entering the kitchen, fingers fastening the last buttons on his dress shirt. “What?” he asks gruffly and for a moment you wonder if he can read your thoughts.

You straighten and meet his gaze head on, swallowing down your nervousness. “How much longer are we going to keep doing this, Logan?”

“Doing what?”

“This,” you say, gesturing between you. “You walking around here like I’m some stain upon your life, acting like I’m a problem when all I’ve ever done is try and help.” Your voice is steadier than you feel. “You asked for me to be here, Logan. It’s not like I barged in here without permission.”

Logan holds your gaze, his jaw tight, and for a moment you think he’s going to grab his keys and leave, head off into the night and drive until sunrise. His eyes soften for just a moment, something like regret crossing his features. 

“I know why you’re here. And I do…appreciate it,” he says, his words coming out low and rough. As if the words taste foreign in his mouth. 

“Wouldn’t kill you to show it,” you challenge.

You’re waiting for him to lash out and instead he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, I’m not good at this.”

“I’m not asking you to bow at my feet,” you say, hoping to ease some of the tension in the air. “Although, I wouldn’t be mad about it.” You think you see the briefest hint of a smile flicker across his face. “I just want us to be able to live in the same space. I’m here to help, Logan. Let me.”

“You have no idea how hard this life is.”

A rueful smile tugs at your lips. “I understand more than you think I do.”

Logan’s gaze sharpens, inquisitive as he searches your face, as if he’s trying to decipher the meaning behind your words. He rubs a hand across his face, scratching lightly as his beard. “I’ve gotta couple jobs tonight. Maybe more,” he finally says, changing the conversation. “Should be back before sunrise.”

You nod, his switch in topic not lost on you, but you don’t push him. “Alright,” you say softly. “Just—just take it easy, okay?”

He glances down at you, relief softening his gaze and you know a part of him is grateful you didn’t push further. 

Grabbing his keys, Logan heads towards the door but pauses just before he’s about to leave. He turns to look back over his shoulder. “Thanks,” he murmurs, the word awkward on his lips. 

You give him a small nod of encouragement as he slips out the door. He may not be ready to full open up, but you feel as if he extended a tiny olive branch tonight, cracked open the door just enough to let you peek in.

+++

Over the following weeks, Logan’s a little less avoidant. He doesn’t go out of his way to make conversation��you didn’t expect him to—but he at least as acknowledges your presence. Small nods and murmured goodbyes when he leaves and sleepy hellos when he returns. It’s not much, but you’ll take it. 

You’re cleaning the last of the dishes from dinner, Charles safely settled in front of the TV watching an old movie when Logan comes home. He’s earlier than you anticipated, but exhaustion lines his face nonetheless. You expect him to slip away quietly, but he pauses instead, lingering in the doorway. 

“Smells good,” he says softly, nodding towards the pan of half eaten lasagna still sitting on the counter. 

Surprised, you turn around to face him. You brush the hair from your face and say, “Sit. I’ll make you up some.” 

Logan hesitates and for a moment you think he’s about to decline, but then he nods, his shoulders dropping slightly as he sits down at the table. You fix him up a plate, setting it down in front of him with a bottle of beer as you slide into the chair across from him.  

He tucks quietly into the food, his fork scraping against his plate as he eats, pausing only to wash it down with a few swigs of beer. You watch him, a strange satisfaction tugging at you at the sight of him actually sitting down, enjoying a meal with you, even if it is in silence. 

“Long day?” you ask quietly, gesturing towards his bruised knuckles.

He flexes the fingers on his free hand before tucking them under the table. “Nothin’ I can’t handle,” he mutters, taking another bite of lasagna. “They’ll be gone in a day or two.”

You know not that long ago an injury like that wouldn’t have even marred his skin. Now, the simplest of wounds can take days to heal and it’s not the appearance of his skin that bothers you, but the newfound ache he experiences, the heaviness of constant pain.

You want to help him, ease his discomfort, like you know you could. But you know he’s not ready for that. Not yet.

“You’re good with Charles,” Logan says then, his gaze steady on his plate. “He seems calmer around you.”

Logan’s admission is so unexpected, you find yourself staring at him in disbelief. At your silence, his eyes flicker up to yours and you see more than simple acknowledgement in his expression. It’s subtle, but it’s there, a current of something more, something you’re not quite sure how to address.

“Thank you,” you murmur, your voice softer than you intended. “Charles—he means a lot to me.” You pause briefly, but something compels you to continue. “You both do.”

His gaze is focused on you and you don’t miss the flicker of surprise that breaks through his usual stoic expression. Clearing his throat, he looks down, pushing around the last bit of lasagna on his plate and then after a moment, he sets his fork down and leans back in his chair. “You mean a lot to him, too,” Logan finally says and you wonder if he’s talking about more than just Charles.

From the living room you hear Charles call for you, his voice soft but insistent. The moment between you still crackles as you stand from the table and as you begin to walk away, Logan reaches for your hand. His fingers are warm and rough against your skin and you’re barely able to suppress your shiver. 

“Thank you,” Logan says, his voice surprisingly soft. 

His grip against your skin is gentle, a stark contrast to all his roughness and you can feel the weight of his unspoken words curling around you. Charles calls again, his voice breaking through the moment, but Logan’s hand lingers just a beat longer before he lets go, fingers trailing along your skin. 

+++

“He likes you, you know.”

You glance up from shaving Charles’ face and find him staring at you, a mischievous glint in his eye. You give a soft hum. “Did he tell you that or did you read his mind?”

Charles scoffs and waves his hand dismissively. “What’s the difference, dear?” 

You chuckle, shaking your head as you rinse the razor. “With Logan I’m pretty sure there’s a big difference.”

“Bah, if Logan wanted to keep me out of his head, he would. Stubborn man.” He tsks softly to himself and shakes his head. “But, no my dear, he can be quite loud if you know how to listen.”

You raise an eyebrow, giving him a playful look. “Loud, huh? And what exactly is that brain of his telling you?”

Charles gives you a knowing smile. “Oh, just little things,” he says casually with a wave of his hand, but you can tell by the look on his face that he’s holding back. “He notices you—what you do for me, this place, for him. He may not realize it himself, but his thoughts linger on you more often than he’d like.”

A flicker of hope sparks in your chest and despite yourself, you feel a blush creeping into your cheeks. “Logan doesn’t strike me as the sentimental type.”

“Logan has spent so much of his life running,” Charles continues, his tone and expression growing more thoughtful. “The loss he’s experienced has led him to believe it’s better to be alone than form meaningful connections with people. But you’ve somehow become something of a home for him. And he doesn’t quite know what to make of that.”

Your heart skips a beat as you take in his words. The idea of being a home for Logan, a comfort, feels surreal, and yet...there’s a part of you that dares to hope what Charles is saying is true. That this isn’t some fictional truth his brain has concocted, a product of his disease riddled mind. 

“Home.” You repeat the word softly to yourself, testing the word on your own tongue as if it might shatter into pieces.

Charles nods, his hand reaching for yours, his gaze warm and knowing. “Yes, home. He feels it, deep down, in a way that’s unfamiliar and frightening for him.”

You glance down at your hand in Charles’ grasp, his touch grounding you as his words settle over you. 

“Logan’s spent so long hiding from himself,” Charles continues. “I think he’s convinced himself he doesn’t deserve that kind of peace.”

“And you think I can give him that peace?” you ask quietly, your eyes flicking back up to Charles’ face.

He smiles knowingly and gives your hand a squeeze. “You already have, dear.”

+++

“Want some help?”

You turn to find Logan standing in the entrance of the kitchen, hands tucked into his pockets.

It’s a rare night—one where Logan’s chosen to stay home, taking a night off from the almost endless driving he does. He’s dressed down, well worn jeans and a button-up flannel, and for once you actually think he looks comfortable.

You smile, surprised, but happy to see him there. “Sure, the company would be nice,” you reply as he comes to stand next to you. “Want to wash and dice the potatoes?”

Logan nods and rolls up his sleeves before reaching for the bowl of potatoes you had set aside earlier. You watch him for a moment as he settles into the task with a quiet focus. 

“Smells good,” he comments, gesturing towards the oven. “What’re we having?”

“Charles has been asking for beef tenderloin for weeks now, so I’m finally indulging him.” You finish trimming the last of the green beans and toss them into the bowl beside you. “You know, if you have any favorite meals you’d like me to make, you can tell me.”

Logan pauses and glances at you as he shuts off the tap. He clears his throat and says, “You already are.”

You blink in surprise as Logan’s words sink in and then the realization dawns on you. A soft smile spreads across your face as you piece together the extent of Charles’ meddling. You can’t find it in you to be annoyed and only feel a mix of amusement and fondness towards the old man as you chuckle softly to yourself.

“What’s so funny?” Logan asks, raising his eyebrow as he catches your expression.

“Oh, nothing,” you say, waving him off with a smile. 

Logan doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t pry as he picks up the knife and begins to deftly dice the potatoes. You watch him for a moment, captivated by the simple domesticity of the task. It’s in direct contrast to the man you’ve seen numerous times before, brooding and gruff, brimming with an almost untamed violence. 

It suits him, you think, this quieter version of himself.

You both finish the prep with relative ease. He helps you set the table as the rest of the food cooks, plates clinking softly as he sets them down. You busy yourself with finishing the green beans in a garlic butter as you wait for for the tenderloin to rest enough to carve into. 

“Ah, my dear, this smells wonderful,” Charles announces as he rolls into the kitchen, a warm smile on his face. “And you managed to pull Logan out of his room. What a treat.”

Logan snorts in response, giving Charles a pointed glare.

“I dare say it’s because the company has improved much as of late,” Charles says, his eyes twinkling in amusement as he glances between the both of you. “We all know he’s not out here for my benefit.”

You laugh as you bring the dishes to the table, noting the faintest of blushes creeping along Logan’s cheeks. “I’ll take that as a compliment, Charles.”

“As you should, dear. Your personality is quite sparkling.” He looks over towards Logan. “Isn’t it, Logan?”

Logan’s eyes land on you as he answers, “Yes. Yes, it is.”

Dinner begins quietly, the three of you settling into easy conversation as the first few bites are consumed. Both Charles and Logan hum in delight and a warmth blooms within you watching them both. This—this is the simplicity you’ve been craving with Logan.

As the meal continues, Charles launches into his usual repertoire of stories, those of the school and his students, his words brimming with nostalgia and pride as he talks. Logan sits back in his chair, arms crossed as he listens to him speak, shaking his head fondly at some of the memories.

“You know,” Charles begins, setting his fork down with an air of mischief, “I don’t think I ever told you how I met Logan, have I?”

Logan’s head snaps up. “Don’t, Chuck.”

But Charles is already smiling at you, ignoring Logan’s warning. “It’s a good story, dear. See, Logan had quite the career as an underground cage fighter.”

You lift your brows in surprise and you glance over at Logan, who’s thoroughly unamused by Charles’ choice of topic. “Cage fighting, huh?” you ask, unable to suppress your curiosity. 

Logan shifts uncomfortably in his seat, stabbing at his potatoes with a little more force than necessary. “It wasn’t a career,” he mutters. “Just a distraction. Way to get by.”

“Mmm, yes, perhaps,” Charles chuckles, clearly enjoying himself. “Regardless of the reason, it lead you to this exact moment. Didn’t it, Logan?”

Logan narrows his eyes at Charles, though the glare is only half-hearted. “You make it sound like all it all had some grand purpose.”

“Did it not?” Charles says gently, his tone shifting into something more serious. “Kept you alive, for one. But more than that, it brought you to us. To me.” He pauses for a moment, his eyes darting towards you. “To her.”

The words hang in the air and you glance over at Logan, whose expression softens just slightly. Without thinking, you reach across the table and give his forearm a gentle squeeze. His eyes meet yours, a flicker of a smile tugging at his lips.

Charles watches the exchange with quiet satisfaction before clearing his throat. “Well, I believe my work here is done,” he announces, wheeling himself back from he table. “Logan, fancy a game of chess? I haven’t made a player out of her yet.”

You laugh to yourself as Logan follows Charles into the living room. After clearing the kitchen from dinner and loading the last of the dishes into the dishwasher, you join them both in the living room. Tucking yourself into the couch, you read while the two of them play, the clinking of wooden chess pieces and the occasional dry quip from Charles filling the room.

From your spot on the couch, you glance up from your book every now and then to watch them. Logan’s brow furrows in concentration, while Charles’ face is more relaxed as they play. You smile to yourself, wondering how often they played like this in the past, when times were simpler.

You’re not sure when you fell asleep or how long you’ve been out, but you’re jostled awake as two large, warm arms wrap around you, holding you close as you’re lifted off the couch. Logan’s familiar scent—cigar smoke and pine—fill your nose and you blink up to find him walking you down the hall towards your room.

“Logan?” you mumble, voice thick with sleep. “D’you really cage fight?”

Logan chuckles softly, the sound rumbling through his chest. “I really did.”

“Did it hurt?”

“No.”

You blink slowly, your sleep-laden mind struggling to process his answer. “Not even a little?” Your voice is barely audible as you nestle closer into the warmth of his chest.

“Not in the way you think,” he answers, nudging open the door to your room with his foot.

You’re too drowsy to ask what he means and instead you hum softly, a noncommittal sound that Logan feels more than hears. Lowering you onto the bed, he moves with a gentleness you’ve never felt from him before. He brushes a strand of hair from your face and pulls the blanket over you before he turns to leave.

Your limbs are heavy, eyes barely open, but you call out softly—“Logan?”

He looks back towards you. “Yeah?”

“I’m glad Charles found you,” you murmur, closing your eyes.

Logan doesn’t answer, but you swear you feel the lightest of kisses against the top of your head before he leaves.

+++

It’s deep into the night when you hear the front door finally open. Your heart flutters against your ribs as you swing out of bed, unsure of what condition you’ll find him in. He was expected back two days ago, those extra hours away feeling like an unfathomable eternity. 

You find him sitting at the kitchen table, dress shirt hanging off one shoulder, the rest of his clothes rumpled and bloodied. A large gash oozes from his shoulder and you can’t stop the gasp that falls from your lips. 

Logan looks up at you, eyes narrowed and lined with exhaustion. “Don’t look at me like that,” he grunts, tugging off the rest of his shirt. 

“How else am I supposed to look at you?” you ask, taking a tentative step forward. “No phone call or text letting me know you’re not coming home and then you waltz in after midnight soaked in blood and covered in wounds.” Unshed tears burn in your eyes but you will yourself not to cry. 

“Didn’t ask you to care about me,” he bites back, but his tone is more weary than argumentative. 

“Oh, fuck you, Logan,” you snip, but your tone lacks venom.

He ignores you, pushing up from the chair with a heavy groan and limps over towards the cabinets. He shuffles through one of them, pulling out the makeshift sewing kit before sitting back down. You watch as he attempts to thread the needle, growing increasingly frustrated when he keeps missing. 

Shoving down your own frustration, you pull up a chair next to him and reach for the needle and thread. He pulls his hands away from you, turning in the chair to keep you away. You chase after his movements, finally grabbing his wrists and removing the supplies from his grasp.

“I don’t need your help,” he growls. 

You sigh, tired of this same argument, this same endless loop every time he comes home injured. “Goddamit, Logan, just let me help you.”

He drags his gaze up to yours, eyes tracing the lines of your face. His chest still heaves with heavy breaths, but you can see the anger bleed from him. He nods once, turning just enough so that you have access to his wound. Threading the needle, you place a gentle hand on his shoulder, ignoring the flinch he gives at your touch. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” you whisper. 

Logan huffs. “It’s a needle, darlin’. It’s not gonna feel nice.”

You try to ignore the flip your heart does at his use of the word darling. Despite his earlier gruffness and proclivity to push you away, Logan has softened to you over the last couple of months. Since that first dinner you shared, he’s joined you and Charles more often. Or if he comes home late, sought out the leftovers you’ve kept for him. He’s engaged in conversation, offering small pieces of himself, pieces that you’ve cradled close and nurtured. 

But there’s a tension between you, thick and heavy in the air, and you wonder if he feels it too. Feels that same undeniable pull you’ve always felt in his presence. You’d like to think so, otherwise you were doomed to love him silently, your feelings for him bound in the quiet of your mind.

“Just trust me,” you say. 

Slowly, you release your power, warmth spreading from your fingertips, easing his pain and discomfort as you begin to stitch him up. You try to ignore the heavy press of his gaze on your face and you can almost hear his unspoken thoughts, his words still stuck on his tongue.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, his shoulder relaxing as you continue to work.

You glance up at him then, finding his expression softer than you’ve seen it. “A mutant is a dangerous thing to be, Logan,” you answer, your voice soft. “Few people know what I can do. Those I trust.”

For a long moment, Logan just looks at you, his eyes unreadable. Then, a rough, tired sigh falls from his lips. “You coulda told me.”

You take a steadying breath, his words lingering in the space between you. “Maybe,” you say, your fingers brushing against his skin as you continue to stitch. “But you don’t make it easy to talk to you.”

Logan lets out a low huff. “No. I guess I don’t, do I?”

You finish the last stitch, securing the knot. Your fingers linger a touch long than necessary, the warmth of his skin a comfort you’re loathe to lose just yet. Slowly, you lift your gaze to his and you feel your heart beat solidly against your ribs as he looks back at you like he’s seeing something there he hadn’t allowed himself to before. 

Logan’s voice is low when he finally speaks. “Why you keep stickin’ around? Watchin’ me come home time after time covered in blood?”

“Because you deserve it.” The words tumble from your mouth before you can stop them. “Even if you don’t see that.”

He doesn’t respond, not right away, as he continues to watch you, his eyes tracing the lines of your face. Then he reaches up for you, fingers curling around your wrist, his skin warm and rough against yours. He holds you there as if grounding himself in your presence, his thumb drawing random patterns against your skin. The gesture is simple, but vulnerable and open in a way he rarely shows.

“I’m no good for you,” he murmurs, glancing down at where he’s touching you. “For anybody.”

“How ‘bout you let me be the judge of that?” you answer, your voice steady. “You’re more than you think you are.”

Logan clenches his jaw, a flicker of disbelief crossing his features, and you know deep below the surface he’s waging a war against himself, one he’s been fighting for far too long. His thumb stills on your wrist, his grip loosening slightly, but not letting go. 

Placing your hand over his, you give him a soft smile. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”

+++

You’re surprised that he doesn’t argue, doesn’t try to brush you off or push you away as you gently nudge him towards the bathroom. He still gives you a dubious glance as he looks down at the tub, but you just ignore it, moving past him to run the tap.

You give him privacy to undress and get settled before you reenter the bathroom. The sight of him, as large as he his with his knees pulled up to his chest, makes you laugh, garnishing a terse look from him.

“You find this amusing?”

“Big man in a little tub? Yeah, I do,” you reply with a smile. “Just relax, Logan. This’ll be our secret.”

He huffs, but does seem to visibly relax, resting his arms over his knees. You kneel down in front of him, resting one hand gently against his forearm as your other reaches for the washcloth. You can feel the tension release from his muscles as your power floods through him and he breathes out a soft, “Oh,” as all the pain and discomfort is eased from his body.

You wonder how long it’s truly been since he’s felt like this, unburdened by the pain and suffering of his own body. Your heart aches for him as you slowly begin to wash him, rubbing soft circles over the scarred flesh of his back, rinsing away the blood dried to his skin. 

Even battered and marred as he is, you still find him beautiful—you always have. When you first started working with him all those months ago, you felt that pang of attraction when you met him, you’d have been blind not to. Ruggedly handsome, so strong and sure of himself. But you know that wasn’t all that drew you to him. Deep down, below all the tough, seemingly impenetrable exterior, you saw the man he truly was. Someone born of scars and rough edges, yet gentle. Someone who would selflessly put himself before others, even at his own expense. 

You let the cloth linger a moment longer against his skin before dipping it back into the water, watching as his blood rinses from the fabric. Squeezing the excess water out, you press it back against his collarbone, tracing the warm cloth along his neck and over his shoulders. Logan doesn’t move, his eyes half-closed, his expression relaxed in a way you’ve never seen before.

Something deep tugs at you as you realize how vulnerable he is right now, how trusting. He hides behind a gruff exterior, his true self guarded so carefully so that he doesn’t let people in, doesn’t open himself up to the hurt that trusting another person can bring. But maybe you’ve finally cracked through, broken down a little bit of that wall he surrounds himself with.

The warm water drips from his skin as you continue to wash him, letting your fingers trail gently along the newly cleaned lines of his arms. Logan shivers at your touch, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he seems to lean into it, his breathing deepening, muscles falling even more slack. 

“Feel nice?” you ask in a murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, finally glancing up at you through his half-lidded gaze. “’S very nice,” he replies, his voice rough.

“Good. You deserve it,” you say, repeating your sentiment from earlier.

You feel a flicker of warmth as his eyes meet yours and he simply nods. It takes everything in you to not smile too widely, to keep the moment gentle, but you take his acceptance to heart. 

Running the cloth down his ribs, you pause when you feel the misshapen knot of a bruise beneath your fingers and glancing down, you find a deep purple hue coloring his skin. Your eyes dart to his with worry, knowing that an injury like that will take him at least a week to heal, if not longer, in his weakened state. That with every breath he’ll feel the pain of his muscles pulling and the bruise spreading if you’re not touching him.

Dropping the washcloth in the water, you press your palm against his side and take in a deep breath to steady yourself. Then, a warmth spreads from your skin into his as you pull his injury from him, feeling his skin knit back together, feeling his abused muscles realign themselves under his skin. A dull, yet sharp ache, blooms along your ribs as you continue to pull his pain into yourself, erasing the injury from his body. With a final gasp, you draw back, your fingers now running along unmarred flesh knitted whole. 

Logan tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze as the back of his knuckles brush against your cheek. His eyes flicker to yours, holding your gaze, and for a moment, the room falls into a deep quiet.

That pull between you, the magnetic force that you’ve felt since the beginning, feels amplified now. You’re acutely aware of every inch of space between you—how small it is, how easy it would be to close it. How badly you want to close it. You swallow, feeling the tension coil in your belly as he continues to hold your gaze, unblinking, but more open and raw than he’s ever been before.

“What are you doing to me?” he asks.

Your breath catches in your throat at his question, voice rough and laced with something between wonder and disbelief. As if he can’t quite fathom what you’ve done for him—what you’ve given him so freely.

Logan’s eyes search yours, his fingers drifting from your cheek to trace along your jaw, lingering with a tenderness that belies the man he presents to the outside world. His gaze is steady and intimate, as if he’s trying to understand you in a way that goes beyond words. But you say nothing, your heart pounding too loudly in your ears to form a reply.

“You took it on yourself, my pain?”

You simply nod, distracted by the way Logan’s fingers continue to brush along the edge of your ear, tracing the lines of your face as if he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. 

“Why?”

“Because I want to,” you whisper, unable to resist the pull of his hand against your skin, the warmth of his touch that you feel with every fiber of your being. “Because it’s the one thing I can do to help you.”

A beat of silence passes, the air thick and heavy with unspoken words. He exhales, shaky and deep, letting his hand slide to the back of your neck. The calloused pads of his fingers press gently against your skin, anchoring you in place and you can feel him pull you closer, his gaze dropping to your lips, his breath mingling with yours in the small, intimate space between you.

“I shouldn’t want this, want you,” he says, voice so low it’s almost a rumble. “But, fuck, I do.” 

His confession is raw, leaving him unguarded for the first time in a long time and before he can pull back, before he can throw those walls back up around himself, you close the gap, resting your forehead against his. You bring your hand up to touch his face, thumb brushing over his cheek as you breath him in, feeling the heat radiate between you. 

Logan’s hand slides further along your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he finally, gently, presses his lips to yours. His kiss isn’t demanding or rushed or filled with passion, but a lingering connection, the promise of something more. His lips are softer than you imagined, his touch more careful than you expected, as if he’s afraid he’ll break you. Slowly, his thumb traces circles against your cheek, steadying and soothing, pulling you closer. 

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed. His breath is warm against your skin. “I don’t wanna push you away anymore,” he murmurs.

“Good because I don’t want you to.”

Logan lets out a breath, a hint of a smile finally softening his features. 

Reluctantly, you pull away and pick the washcloth up again, intent on finishing what you started. The water turns to rust as you wash him of blood and grime, making sure you reach each cut, each bruise, each scar on his body that makes up the map of who he is. 

You turn off the tap and hand him a towel, averting your eyes as he stands, wrapping the towel low across his hips. Logan reaches for you, tugging on the collar of your shirt to pull you closer. You stumble a bit as he pulls you in, surprised by the insistence in his grip. Logan’s eyes meet yours, an intensity behind his gaze that makes your breath catch.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, hand slipping along your jaw, his thumb pressing against your bottom lip. 

You’re drawn forward as Logan’s lips find yours again, but this time there’s an urgency behind the kiss, a desperation and need he’s no longer trying to hide. He holds your face gently in his hands as he deepens the kiss, his nose pressing against yours, his beard scraping against your skin and you find yourself melting against him.

This is what you’ve been craving since you met him. Despite it all—the rage simmering just below his surface, the sharpness of his exterior, the sometimes shocking callousness of his words—you always knew there was a tenderness underneath, a softness that even his tortured past couldn’t erase. 

Logan’s hands drift from your face, trailing down your neck and tracing along the curve of your spine as he presses you closer until there’s no space between you. The dampness of his skin bleeds into your shirt and you gasp into his mouth when he shifts his hips just enough and you feel heat of his erection against your thigh.

He pulls away from your mouth long enough to husk against your lips, “I’m old, not dead.” His teeth nip lightly at your bottom lip. “I’ve gotta beautiful woman lettin’ me kiss her, what did you expect?”

Your fingers trail along the edge of the towel slung low across this hips and a thrill runs through you as you feel his abdominal muscles flutter beneath your touch. You peer up at him, noting the flush of his skin, the black of his eyes as you tug the fabric just enough to loosen it. “How long has it been since someone has touched you, Logan?” you ask, your breath warm in the space between you.

Logan’s hands urge your hips closer, seeking friction as he starts to slowly rut against your thigh. You hear him swallow as your fingers dip below the fabric, brushing along the damp hair at the base of his cock. 

“F—fuck,” he groans, guttural and low, his head dropping down to your shoulder. “Since before you.”

The weight of Logan’s confession presses into you and in that moment you want to give him everything. Wrap him in all the love you can muster, show him something other than pain and suffering. 

You move your hand from the towel, allowing the fabric to fall from his waist and pool forgotten on the floor. Logan’s breath catches as your fingers wrap around him fully, the heat and weight of his cock pressing against your palm. 

A ragged groan escapes his throat. “Christ,” he mutters, voice thick and vibrating against your skin. “You don’t gotta—”

“I want to,” you interrupt, slowly and deliberately dragging your hand along his length, tracing the vein along the underside of his cock with your fingertips.

Logan’s hips jerk involuntarily, seeking friction, chasing your hand, and you oblige, tightening your grip just enough to elicit another groan from him. 

“What do you like?” The question lands in the sliver of space between you, your strokes still light, teasing.

“Firmer, more ah—” He breaks off as you tighten your grip on the upstroke. “Fuck, yes, like that, sweetheart.”

A shiver runs down your spine as his hands find your waist, fingers clutching at you almost hard enough to bruise. His breaths are growing uneven, each exhale warm against your neck as he fights to maintain some semblance of control.

“You keep that up,” he rasps, lips grazing your ear, “and I’m not gonna last long.”

His admission sends a rush of pride through you and you tilt your head back to look at him, your thumb brushing over the sensitive head of his cock, spreading the wetness there. Logan’s eyes meet yours, dark and heavy-lidded, his expression raw and unguarded. You like him like this, such a large, imposing man boiled down to pure wanton need. 

“I don’t mind,” you reply, keeping your movements steady, your strokes firm yet gentle. You focus on the subtle shifts in his breathing, the way his fingers grip you tighter each time you find the right rhythm. “Just wanna make you feel good, Logan.”

He leans forward, capturing your lips into a kiss that’s both rough and messy, teeth nipping at your lip as his tongue licks into your mouth. He groans are muffled against your mouth as his hips begin to thrust in time with your strokes, his movements growing more erratic as he chases after his release. 

“Can’t believe—ah, fuck—can’t believe how good you’re makin’ me feel,” he growls against your lips.

You smile into his mouth, your free hand brushing along his hipbone as your strokes quicken. His whole body tenses, the muscles in his shoulders and arms flexing, his abdominal muscles taut as he teeters on the edge.

“Let go, Logan,” you say. “I’ve got you.”

With a strangled groan, he comes, his release spilling over your hand, hot and thick. His body shudders against yours as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. You hold him close as he continues to thrust lazily into your grip, your own movements slowing as you guide him through the aftershocks. 

For a moment, neither of you speaks, then Logan lifts his head, his hazel eyes soft as they meet yours. “You walked into my life and I knew—I knew—you would ruin me.”

You smile to yourself, unable to stop the thought that floats into your head—he’s ruined you as well. 

+++

The text comes in at a little over one AM—hurt.

You jump out of bed, adrenaline rushing through your veins as you slip into one of his discarded flannels and head out into the night. Pacing the driveway, your heart jumps into your throat at every passing headlight, your thumbnail almost bitten down to the quick as you wait for him.

The minutes bleed into eternity until you finally see the limo turn down the long drive and it takes all your willpower to not run and meet him halfway. You’re bouncing on your heels as he finally comes to a stop, the driver’s side door opening with a faint groan of steel. 

Your heart stutters in your chest as he emerges from the car, blood soaking through his shirt, dark and spreading, as he steps towards you on shaky legs. Logan’s face is pale in the moonlight, his breathing uneven and shallow and white-hot dread shoots up your spine as you see his arm hanging limp, two of his claws unsheathed and dripping blood.

“Oh, fuck, fuck!” you gasp, rushing to his side.

Logan tries to wave you off, gritting his teeth as he grips the doorframe. “”M fine,” he grits, but the tremor in his voice betrays him. 

You reach for him, hands already attempting to steady him as his knees buckle and he collapses to the ground beneath him. “Careful. Claws,” he rasps as his left hand seeks purchase against your shoulder.

“I don’t fucking care about your claws, Logan,” you snap, although you both know your anger isn’t at him. You glance up at him and for once you think you actually see fear in his eyes. “What happened?”

“Gas. Robbery.” Each word punches out of his chest, the effort to speak sending tremors down his limbs. “Got ‘em.” He nods down towards his limp arm, claws still unsheathed, but slowly, so slowly starting to retract.

He winces as you help him peel off his coat to get to the shirt underneath. Your fingers shake as they trace the holes the bullets made—one in his shoulder, dangerously close to his lungs and the other just below his ribs. Hooking your fingers through the fabric, you rip it from his chest—the wounds are deep and his skin is hot and slick with sweat.

Panic claws at you and unshed tears burn in your eyes. You’ve seen Logan hurt before, but this—this was different. His breathing is painfully shallow, his usual gruffness and resilience absent. 

“Logan, you’re not healing,” you whisper, your voice shaking as your fingers stain with blood. Logan simply grunts, trying to wave you off, but lacking the strength. “I can’t…I can’t lose you. I can help.”

Logan’s eyes widen as he grabs for your wrist. “No. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“I don’t care!” you shout. “I love you, dammit, and I’m not just going to sit here and watch you die!”

Before he can protest, you press your palms over his wounds, the familiar warmth of your power surging through you as it spreads from your palms into his torn flesh.

The pain hits you like a freight train.

It’s sharp and relentless, searing through your shoulder and into the softness of your belly like molten fire. You gasp, biting back a scream as your body jerks instinctively away from the intensity, every cell in your body demanding you withdraw from the torture. 

But you don’t stop. You cling to him, tears streaming down your face as you channel your power into him, knitting his flesh back together. You can feel it, the way his muscles, bones and tissue rearrange themselves, months of healing taking place in mere moments. Every second feels like an eternity, but you refuse to let go.

You’re dimly aware of Logan yelling at you to stop, his own pain momentarily forgotten as he watches you endure his agony. 

Black dots dance in your vision as the last of his wounds come together, the spent bullets clinking to the gravel and you finally collapse against him, trembling, your breath coming in ragged gasps. The fire in your body begins to dull, fading to a cold, hollow ache as Logan wraps his arms around you, pulling you tight against his chest.

“Hey,” you mumble against him, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’re okay now.”

“Me?” Logan’s voice is low, disbelieving as his hand cradles the back of your head as if you might shatter. “You’re the one—why the fuck would you do that? You could’ve—dammit, you—”

His words break off, his forehead dropping to yours as his breath shudders against your cheek. You can feel the tension radiating through him, warring with himself between his gratitude and anger, between his guilt and the love he’s too afraid to speak out loud.

“I told you why,” you answer, lifting your head to look up at him. 

Logan’s jaw clenches, his words caught in his throat, but his eyes say everything is voice won’t. You don’t need him to say it, not yet, but you can feel it, pressing just below the surface.

“C’mon, let’s get you inside.”

+++

There’s a reverence in which Logan washes you. 

Steam swirls around you as he works the thickly lathered loofah over your shoulders, down across your collarbones and down along the soft planes of your stomach. The water rinses away the faint metallic tang of blood, leaving behind the fresh scent of soap. He continues with a silent determination, as if the act of washing you can erase all the pain you’ve taken from him.

You know better than to convince him you’re fine, that the pain is always temporary, that it only lasts for a few minutes, sometimes just a bit longer. That the pain is something you’d endure for him again and again if he’d let you. 

His thumb brushes along the underside of your ribs, searching for a wound you know he won’t find. You reach for him, lacing your fingers together with his. He blinks up at you, hazel eyes holding far too much worry for such a stoic man.

“I’m not going to break, Logan,” you say softly.

A wordless noice escapes his throat as he removes himself from your grasp and continues to work, ditching the loofah in favor of his hands. His fingers are warm and calloused against your skin as they glide lower, down over the swell of your hips, over your thighs, down towards your knees. 

His touch morphs from one of care and comfort to one more sensual, simmering with unspoken tension as his fingers rest in the hollow behind your knee. You glance down at him, water droplets catching in his hair, running off the slope of his nose. 

Though you’ve seen him bare before, you can help but trace the lines of his body—the broadness of his shoulders, the well defined muscles of his chest, the sturdiness of his thighs, the scars that mar his skin. The sight of him stirs something deep within you and you feel your pulse thrum beneath your skin.

“Logan,” you murmur, your voice almost lost in the sound of the water.

He looks up at you then, eyes locking with yours. A storm swirls within them, a mix of guilt, affection and an intensity that takes your breath away. Leaning in, he presses the barest of kisses to the inside of your knee before he rises to his full height, pressing you close.

“D’you mean what you said before?” he asks, voice low.

I love you, dammit!

“Yes,” you answer without hesitation.

Logan exhales sharply, the tension he’s been holding coiled in his muscles loosening as he loops his arms around your waist. “I’m not very good with words,” he admits, his breath fanning across your damp skin. “Can I show you?”

There’s no mistaking the meaning behind his words and you can only nod, your voice catching in your throat. 

His lips find yours, mouth moving over yours slow and deliberate as if he’s savoring the taste of you. The first touch is a spark, the second a fire, and by the third, it’s an inferno that engulfs you both and leaves you breathless. Logan kisses you like you’re his anchor, his salvation, his touch desperate and full of everything he can’t yet put into words.

Your fingers slide into his hair, gripping the strands at the nape of his neck as you pull him closer, deepening the kiss. He groans against your mouth, the sound swallowed in the space between you. His tongue brushes against yours, teasing and exploring and you respond in kind, your nails scraping along his scalp.

Logan’s control is fraying. You can feel it in the way his teeth nip at your bottom lip, the way his hands press along the curve of your spine, the way he can’t seem to find enough of your skin to touch, to caress. A low growl rumbles through his chest as you slip a hand between your slick bodies, finding his cock, thick and heavy against your belly.

You give one slow drag of your palm along his length before he’s gripping your thighs and forcing your legs around his waist. His mouth leaves yours, trailing down to the curve of your jaw as he presses you against the wall, the coolness of the tile a direct contrast to the heat of your skin and you can’t stop the gasp that escapes your lips. 

Despite his age, the metal bones inside him slowly poisoning him and causing him human aches and pains, he’s still able to hold you up solidly with one arm as the other trails along your hip bone and dips down to where you’re warm and wet. 

“This all for me?” he asks in a murmur, sliding a finger along the seam of your cunt, just barely brushing against your clit. 

Your breath hitches and you grip his shoulders, nails pressing lightly into his skin as you nod. Logan’s eyes darken at your reaction, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Yes,” you finally manage to whisper. “Always for you.”

“Good,” he growls, leaning in to nip at the skin just below your ear. The deep rumble of his voice vibrates through you, his touch deliberate and almost torturously slow as he slides his fingers through your folds, spreading your slickness with a focused and unrelenting precision. 

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, your head tilting back against the wall as he finally presses his thumb to your clit, circling it with just enough pressure to have your thighs trembling around his waist. 

“I got you,” he coos against your skin, his lips trailing from the pulse point in your neck to your collarbone. His teeth scrape along the curve of your shoulder, his free hand gripping your hip tighter to steady you as his fingers continue to tease and coax. “Lemme make you feel good.”

Every nerve ending is afire beneath him, every motion, every stroke of his fingers against your cunt leaving your mind reeling with pleasure. Your nails dig further into corded muscles of his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor yourself to. You pull back when you see the tiny, crescent shaped cuts marring his skin.

His eyes snap up to yours, sharp and molten. “No, do it,” he urges, fingers still moving. “Mark me with somethin’ pretty.”

“Fuck, Logan,” you gasp. 

“Say my name again,” he demands, his voice rough and commanding. There’s a quiet desperation in his tone, as if hearing it grounds him. Grounds him to this moment. To you. 

You can’t help but obey, whispering his name like a prayer, and he rewards you by slipping one long finger inside you, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure along your spine. Logan watches your face intently as if memorizing the way you react to his touch. When he adds a second finger and slowly begins to thrust his hand, you cling further to him, the heat inside you building to an almost unbearable intensity.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice low and reverent. “You’re so beautiful like this. So wet and warm and tight around me.”

His words barely register in your mind, too focused on the way his fingers curl and thrust inside you, finding that soft spot that makes your eyes roll back. He’s relentless now, his thumb pressing hard against your clit as he brings you closer and closer to the edge.

“Logan, I’m so close,” you whine, your hips beginning to roll against his hand, seeking just a bit more friction, forcing his fingers deeper inside of you.

The tension coiling low in your belly finally snaps, your orgasm washing over you in waves that make your whole body shudder as you cry out his name. Logan holds you through it, his hand continuing to thrust against you as he draws out every ounce of pleasure from you, his own breathing ragged against your skin.

When you finally come down, Logan presses a kiss to your temple as he helps you unwrap your legs from his waist and carefully sets you down, keeping you close. 

You tilt your head to meet his gaze, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “I didn’t think you’d be into shower sex, old man,” you tease with a smile.

His laugh is low. “I can make exceptions. I need a bed to fuck you properly, though.” 

“Prove it,” you challenge.

+++

The heat and intensity between you doesn’t diminish as Logan helps you out of the shower and guides you down the hallway towards his bedroom. A shiver of anticipation crawls up your spine as you get closer, knowing that once you cross this line, there’s no going back, that he will have claimed you fully.

You scoot back onto the bed, watching as he approaches you with a fire in his gaze that doesn’t waver. He climbs onto the mattress, knee pressing down between yours as he cages you in from above, gently pinning you beneath him. 

Leaning down, his lips brush against yours, teasing. “Still wanna challenge me, sweetheart?” His voice is a low gravelly growl that sends a prickling rush of arousal down your limbs.

“Always,” you reply breathlessly, arching into his touch as his hands slide down your thighs, parting them with ease. 

His grin is sharp as he leans back to take you in fully and you acutely feel the weight of his gaze against your skin. He traces his calloused fingers over your damp skin, along the dips of your collarbones, under the swell of each breast, mapping the curve of your hips as if committing you to memory. Dipping his head, he leans down between your legs, his beard grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs and you can’t help but shudder at the sensation.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he says, almost to himself, his voice dripping with desire. He drags his lips higher, brushing along your damp cunt, his breath hot and tantalizing. “And all mine.”

The possessiveness in his tone has you clenching around nothing, heat pooling low in your belly and your fingers tangle in his hair, urging him closer. But he ignores your silent plea, almost deliberately testing your patience as he kisses you everywhere except where you want him most.

“Logan, please,” you gasp, the ache between your thighs almost painful.

“Patience,” he chides with a smirk, though his own resolve seems to be thinning. His hands grip your hips, pulling you closer before he flattens his palms against your thighs, opening you fully to him. Then, his tongue is on you, lapping at you with flat, broad strokes in a rhythm that quickly has you teetering on the edge.

Logan’s focus is unrelenting, his low growls of approval vibrating through you as he works you over with an enthusiasm that proves to you this is about more than just pleasure—he’s claiming you, showing you just how much you mean to him. Making you his. 

Your thighs tremble around him and his warm, rough hands hold you steady as he slips one, then two fingers deep inside of you. It’s embarrassing how quickly you come as he thrusts his fingers against that spot inside you, your second orgasm of the night crashing over you as his name falls from his lips in a breathless moan. 

Before you can properly catch your breath, Logan is moving from between your thighs, making his way back up your body, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses against your skin. His lips finally find yours in a kiss that’s messy and desperate and you can taste yourself on his tongue, sharp and bright, and the intimacy of it sends a thrill through you. 

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against your lips, his voice wrecked as he grinds his hips against yours, his cock hard and insistent against your hip. “Could spend the rest of my life between between those thighs.”

“Why stop there?” you tease, your lips tugging into a smirk. “I thought you said you’d fuck me properly.”

Logan’s eyes darken, your challenge seeming to light something dark and primal in him. His grin is all teeth as he sits back on his heels, hands curling around your hips and pulling you down the bed like you weigh nothing until your hips are flush with his. “You gotta mouth on you, sweetheart. Should we see if you can still talk stuffed full of my cock?”

The weight of his cock brushes against your slick folds and you gasp at the sensation, your nerve endings exquisitely sensitive. Logan grips himself at the base, giving himself one languid stroke before running the thick head along your cunt, teasing you with shallow thrusts. Each slow, deliberate stroke of him sliding against you leaves you desperate and aching and you lift your hips in search of more.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So needy. Bet you’ll take me so well, huh?”

“Yes,” you breathe, nails digging into the muscles of his forearms. “Please.”

He presses into you then, the stretch of his cock making your jaw drop as he takes his time, sinking in inch by inch, filling you completely. Logan’s gaze is locked on yours, heavy and possessive as he watches every flicker of pleasure cross your face. 

“Fuck” he groans when he’s fully seated against your hips, his body trembling with the effort to stay still. “You feel…so fuckin’ tight. So damn perfect.”

Your hands clutch at his shoulders, anchoring yourself to him as he starts to move, pulling out torturously slow before thrusting back in harder, setting a rhythm that’s relentless and consuming. Each stroke of his hips has you crying out, your body arching into his as you meet him thrust for thrust.

“Takin’ me so well, sweetheart,” he growls, his fingers gripping the flesh of your hips hard enough to bruise as he continues to pound into you. “Like you were made for me.”

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixing in with your whimpered moans and Logans own ragged groans. He leans down, bracing himself on his forearms, the wiry hair on his chest teasing your nipples as his lips find your neck, biting and sucking marks into your skin that feel like promises.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him in deeper, your heels digging into his back as the coil inside you begins to tighten once more. He feels it too, the way you body clenches around him, and his pace falters slightly, his breaths coming faster.

“C’mon,” he rasps against the pulse point on your neck. “Wanna feel you come. Wanna make you fall apart.”

It doesn’t take much more—just a few more well-angled thrusts that hit that spot inside you and the tension finally snaps, your orgasm ripping through you with a force that leaves you trembling. Logan’s finesse is slipping, thrusts growing erratic as chases his own release.

“Come Logan,” you manage in a whisper. “Come for me.”

His hips stutter as he groans your name, spilling into you as his body tenses, lazily thrusting against you as he wrings out the last of his pleasure. He stays deep inside you, still for several moments before he shifts just enough to collapse against your side.

For a long moment, neither of you moves, the only sounds in the room being your heavy breathes and the pounding of your heart. Logan rests his head against your chest, heavy and sweat slick between your breasts. You brush at the strands of hair against his forehead before running your finger along the old scar on his cheek.

He lifts his head to look up at you, his gaze soft yet still simmering with hunger. “I do, you know,” he murmurs. His fingers brush idly against your skin. “Love you.”

A smile spreads across your face, warming blooming in your chest.

“I know.”

+++

You wake before he does, rolling over to find him prone, face buried in the pillow he hugs close to his chest. Sunlight filters in through the half slatted blinds, catching on the silver in his hair and beard and you can’t help but admire how handsome he looks, how at peace he is beside you. He’s relaxed in sleep for the first time since you came here. You’ve heard his growls and yelps of terror that echo in the night, seen the claw marks that pierce his sheets.

Your mind filters back to last night and how he looked as he came apart inside you, how desperate and needy he was for your touch upon his skin. The memory of his gasps and groans send a rush of warmth over your skin, making you dimly aware of the ache between your legs. Logan, so guarded, so unyielding and seemingly unbreakable, trembled as he came, his voice rough and wrecked as he called out your name. You shiver thinking about it.

You want to hear it again. But not now.

Resisting the urge to reach out and brush the hair from his forehead, you leave him undisturbed and slide out of bed. Padding into the kitchen, you find Charles sitting in his chair at the kitchen table, the newspaper spread out in front of him. He looks up at you with a warm smile as you start a pot of coffee, the machine humming to life. 

“Ah, I see,” he comments, a smirk tugging at his lips.

You glance over at Charles, his eyes back on the paper in front of him, but his smile still paints his face, sly and knowing. Heat creeps up your neck as you busy yourself with the coffee. “Are you reading my mind?” you ask, trying to force nonchalance into your tone.

Charles chuckles softly and taps at his temple. “I don’t have to. You’re projecting. And quite loudly, at that.”

You bite your lip as you fill your mug, leaning against the counter as the coffee warms your hands. You attempt to clear your mind, trying to think of anything mundane—the weather, baseball, laundry. Charles just shakes his head. “Relax, my dear. What the two of you do together as consenting adults is none of my business.”

“Oh, God,” you groan, your cheeks aflame. “That’s what I’m projecting?”

“Not that explicitly, no. You think more in feelings, rather than words. But they’re quite powerful emotions and rather hard to ignore when they’re radiating as strongly as yours are this morning.”

You bury your face in your hand, peeking at Charles through your fingers, which only seems to amuse him further. “You’re enjoying this far too much,” you mutter. 

“Perhaps,” Charles says with a laugh. “But you’re helping him. Healing him. And that, my dear, is worth everything.” 

Before you can respond, you hear the sound of heavy footsteps coming down the hall. Logan rounds the corner, hair tousled from sleep, his body still bare except for the pair of low slung sweatpants clinging to his hips. His eyes find yours first, softening in a way they rarely do for anyone else as he scratches at the back of his head and mumbles, “Mornin’.”

“Morning,” you reply with a smile, thankful for the distraction. You pour a second cup of coffee and offer it up to him. “Coffee?”

Logan grunts in affirmation, moving towards you, but instead of reaching for the mug, he loops an arm around your waist, pulling you against him. He buries his face in your neck, beard scraping against your skin as he sighs. “Didn’t like wakin’ up with you not there,” he breathes into your hair, his voice so low you almost don’t hear him.

“Sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“S’okay,” he says softly, pressing the lightest of kisses just under your ear. “Next time, wake me.”

Your heart stutters against your ribs at his open display of affection, the softness and warmth in which he holds you, and the promise behind his words. From over his shoulder you see Charles give you a slight nod, a bright smile on his face before he turns his attention back to the newspaper in front of him.

You think back to what Charles told you all those months ago, about how you were a home for Logan. Those words echo in your mind as you feel Logan’s steady weight against you. He’s so different now, soft and unguarded and in that moment you know.

You’re home, too.